


with whom should Death belong

by ratbandaid



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Background Relationships, Blood and Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sylvain-centric, knowledge on the hades game is not required but it might make this a little easier to understand?, some Hades spoilers so be careful!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27656074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratbandaid/pseuds/ratbandaid
Summary: "Anyway, I can’t imagine anyone or anything can fall in love down here, what with all this dreariness. It’s just about impossible to find love here!”Sylvain keeps replaying what Hilda had said in her mind. Impossible to find love in the Underworld?That’s not entirely true, Sylvain wants to say. He averts his gaze from Hilda, who cocks her head as her curious eyes glue themselves to him.I’ve fallen in love here.Flashes of long, dark hair tied back and a sharp gaze, of a floating, hooded figure and a large scythe; the sound of a soothing, low voice and an echoing toll of church bell, the soft but ever-cold caress of his fingers against Sylvain’s cheek and through his hair and—Sylvain grimaces.Not true, he confirms to himself.You can find love here. That much is true. It just... might not turn out all that great in the end.-----Hades (game) AU for my Sylvix Santa gift to gautitties in the discord!! :D In which Sylvain, prince of the Underworld, attempts repeatedly to escape his father's domain and dies! A lot!
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42
Collections: Sylvix Gift Exchange 2020





	with whom should Death belong

**Author's Note:**

> Here's one (1) Hades (game) AU Sylvix, with a hint of ~~somewhat self-indulgent~~ Dimiclaude and a healthy dose of angst and death! I had a lot of fun writing this one!
> 
> I've been meaning to write a Hades AU, especially since I've been sucked into playing Hades for a few months, but seeing that one of the prompts was asking for this made me really excited! 
> 
> Unfortunately, there wasn't enough time for me to fully flesh out and assign every Hades character a FE3H character, so not all of them will be here, but I tried my best to make some fit! :^) see the end notes for a few fun thoughts abt the roles!!
> 
> I really hope that you all enjoy, especially my wonderful giftee!! :D 
> 
> ~~also, while reading, please be a lil patient with my writing style,,, i was going through a pretty rough block,,, also-also, there's a lot of stuff here, but felix will show up eVENTUALLY i swear,,~~

The drop into Tartarus is always much longer than Sylvain anticipates, as if even time itself tries to slow down in its futile attempt to keep him in the House of Hades. He closes his eyes briefly as the air around him tousles his hair and clothes. He imagines himself jumping onto the supposedly soft yet bizarrely pointy, green grass of the mortal realm instead of jumping into the depths of Tartarus, imagines himself beneath a non-black sky without the sounds of scorn and misery surrounding him.

A steadying breath in, a determined breath out.

His feet, enveloped in those flames as they always have been, hit the cold, cracked stone of Tartarus. The acrid smell of smoke and blood permeates the air. Sylvain rights himself with practiced ease and opens his eyes, casting a cursory glance around before his journey begins once more.

Another breath in, another breath out.

It begins again.

Ghastly, green-blue shades linger about the chamber, paying him no mind. Most know not to by now. They’ve seen him far too often by this point to truly question his presence in Tartarus. Sylvain ignores them too, dashing past the ghastly hands reaching out from the bloody rivers around him for some sort of salvation and the human-esque figures haunting the sides of the chamber.

They won’t help him. He can’t help them either.

The smarter shades float around him. The newer shades don’t move when he dashes through them, finding themselves minorly inconvenienced by having to gather their spiritual essence together once more after he phases through them. Sometimes, the gutsier ones will even complain aloud at him, though Sylvain never offers anything back other than a small smirk and a wink as he hurries to the other side of the room.

Sylvain smiles to himself, though inwardly, he knows it’s more of a grimace for the horrors and hardships that lie ahead, for those he loves and is attempting to abandon.

“Good-bye, Father,” Sylvain says tauntingly, knowing his father will hear him, even from within the heart of his wretched realm. He can practically see his father sighing exasperatedly in reply.

With that, Sylvain pushes open the doors of the chamber and enters the next chambers, where damned souls lie in wait. Strapped at his side, Sylvain’s trusted sword, Stygius, awaits his command, prepared to cut down all who stand in his way.

Each and every trek to breach the mortal realm, to escape his father’s oppressive cruelty, has been futile so far. The ever-winding, treacherous Underworld is filled to the brim with foes and traps meant to stop every desperate soul, especially Sylvain’s, it seems. Enemy after enemy, chamber after chamber—it never seems to end.

Yet, Sylvain remains unfazed, remains determined.

After all, how can he stay dejected after all the trouble his loved ones are going through to help him?

After his close friend, confidant, and trainer, Dimitri, the exalted but forgotten hero of old, had gone through all that trouble of training him? After his kind-hearted and mother-like friend, Mercedes, Night Incarnate, had gone through all that trouble to contact the Olympians to aid in his escape? After the gods from Mount Olympus are so graciously lending him their powers?

No, Sylvain can’t afford to just throw in the towel and give in because he’s run into a block. He’s got to keep at it. Even if he dies over and over and over. Even if it hurts and hurts and hurts. He can endure it. The payoff is worth it.

After he clears the chamber of enemies relatively unscathed, a wave of calm washes over him. Sylvain lets out a small breath as a bright flash appears before him. A blessing from an Olympian, a hand extended in an attempt to help.

Sylvain smiles to himself and takes a better look at the blessing before him. It’s a bright, green orb that bears a divine arrow, the marking of none other than Ingrid, Goddess of the Hunt.

He briefly runs a hand through his hair before he reaches out towards the glowing orb.

“In the name of Hades,” Sylvain calls out, his voice bounding back at him from the empty walls of the chamber around him, “Olympus, I accept this message!”

The orb in his palm shakes and flashes, the bright green light enveloping the room. Sylvain instinctively shuts his eyes until the light fades down, revealing Ingrid’s image before him, crossing her arms. No god has ever come to meet him in person, as Sylvain’s father is quite hellbent on keeping the other gods out of his realm, but seeing their floaty, semi-translucent image before him has still never failed to fill his chest with a happy sort of warmth.

“Hey, Ingrid.” Sylvain gives her a wink. “Looking lovely as ever.”

“You’re still not out yet, Sylvain?” asks the goddess, pointedly ignoring Sylvain’s flirty comment. She eventually learned, like the other gods, how Sylvain really was anyway. She doesn’t wait for a response, instead shaking her head and continuing, “No matter. With my help, you’ll be out of there in no time. And then we can spend some time together with everyone. Sound good?”

Sylvain hums. “Always has.”

Ingrid flashes him a small smile before a light forms in her palm. The light floats around in the air, a short, one-sided dance, before crossing the distance between him and her. It is warm to the touch as it seeps into Sylvain’s body, melds through his form and into his soul. With a brief flash that fires through Sylvain’s body, Sylvain’s been granted a boon by the goddess. His gaze feels sharper. He can see the enemy’s weak points, can see his advantages.

He just hopes this boon will help him see a way out.

“Get out there, Sylvain,” she tells him as she begins to fade. Her gaze turns stern, as it often is when she isn’t talking about her favorite meals up in Olympus or her precious hunting companion. “I don’t want to see you again until you’re out of that hellhole.”

Sylvain grins and gives her a playful two-finger salute. They both know that they’re more likely to meet again through this kind of way rather than in person. After all, his chances of getting out of Hades is slim.

But it isn’t zero.

Sylvain clutches to that hope desperately— _foolishly_ , he can practically hear a familiar voice in his head say, but he shuts that thought out in a weak attempt to console his aching heart—and he moves onward.

Enemy after enemy, chamber after chamber, door after door. There’s no end to these winding halls. Sylvain cuts through enemies the best he can, but it does him little good. The small gifts he’s awarded for clearing a room are laughable, taunting consolation prizes consisting of meager amounts of gems and nectar and keys. But they’ll help him in the long-run, and they’ll be useful in the future, so Sylvain collects them and keeps his head up.

Until he can no longer keep his head up, that is.

Despite all of his hard work and all those boons gifted to him by Ingrid and a few other gods and goddesses along the way, Sylvain can’t make it out of even Tartarus. He blames Dorothea, one of the Furies sent by his father to stop him from escaping.

They meet, as they always do, in the last chamber of Tartarus, the one that will lead him into another realm of the Underworld, just one step closer to salvation.

“Well! If it isn’t the lovely, lovely Dorothea,” Sylvain greets.

“My! Sylvain,” she coos at him, grinning at him, “you’re back for more.”

Sylvain shrugs. “What can I say?” He offers a wink. “When a pretty lady asks me to come by again, I can only obey, right?”

Dorothea’s smile falters a little. “I told you _not_ to come back.” Her real colors are starting to show now, right before the inevitable fight to the death begins. “You know I’m not allowed to let you into Asphodel.” She rights her smile, now with a touch of mischief and an undercurrent of frustration. “Now are you going to turn back around like a good little boy, or am I going to have to send you back home the painful way?”

“Oh, come now, Dorothea. You know I can’t just stop here.” Sylvain shakes his head. “And I can’t just turn around and go home. My father would behave the same way he would if I died to your hand and returned home.”

He feels his own expression hardening, but he’s not afraid to let Dorothea see this part of him. She’s seen a lot worse from him after all the years of being holed up with his terrible father down in Hades. She’s held him through some of the worst alongside Mercedes, after all.

It just kills him inside that it’s Dorothea. He’d rather it be one of her two heartless sisters. Hell, he’d gladly fight them both, even if he knows that he’s unlikely to win. But it’s Dorothea.

Yet, he won’t deny that fighting Dorothea is more fun.

Dorothea sighs. “Alright. Fine. I knew there was no changing your mind anyway. But if you won’t come home willingly…” She leans forward, her single wing spread out to her side and her whip sharply cracking the air and coming to rest behind her. Her signature fighting pose. She’s about to strike.

It’s too late to go back, to accept her offer now.

Dorothea smirks. “Then I guess we’d best return to status quo, Sylvain.”

Sylvain, despite the increasing fear that he’s going to end up going back to the place he’s grown to hate, laughs good-naturedly and unsheathes his sword. “Don’t look too glum now. A frown is unbefitting such a pretty face. I’ll make this quick.”

“You’ll make this quick? That’s my line! Stick to the script, won’t you?” And with no further warning, Dorothea charges at him, her whip cutting through the air. Sylvain just barely stumbles out of the way.

“Hey! I wasn’t ready!” He laughs. “Playing dirty, are we? It’s okay. I enjoy a challenge!” Sylvain calls out, firing a burst of magic. It shoots from the palm of his hand, cutting through the air towards Dorothea, but she swiftly blocks it.

The fight is just as intense as it always is, but it’s also just as embarrassingly short-lived. No matter how well or often Sylvain dashes, rolls, feints, dodges, parries, or even manages to land a hit, he simply doesn’t see an end to the fight.

An end favoring him, anyways. 

It doesn’t help that Sylvain came into this chamber bearing a bunch of wounds already—a lame leg from a vicious swipe of a Wretched Thug, a searing burn along his ribs from a Brimstone, a painful fracture from a Wringer, among many other injuries. To be honest, it was kind of hard to tell how Sylvain was even standing upright there in that chamber.

Dorothea doesn’t relent. Her fire magic surrounds him, follows him, lunges at him, leaving him hot and sore and burnt. Even his poor hair suffers with him, singeing at the ends when caught by the blasts of flame. Her whip dances in the air, a cruel one-person waltz to accompany the loud crack it makes before it strikes Sylvain, over and over. Her reinforcements blindly charge at Sylvain. And the pressure-plated spikes around the room wait innocently for him to bumble into them, waiting to pierce him through.

Sylvain hurts like hell all over as his wounds scream out in agony, as his muscles cramp and twist and ache, as his chest heaves feverishly, up and down with every labored breath, with every step forward and every leap back—but he does his damnedest to keep fighting. He reminds himself of supposedly blue skies with splotches of white fluff-balls, of cool air against his skin and through his hair, of all sorts of strange unfathomable creatures and sights.

He clutches onto the promise of freedom and safety and happiness, all away from his father’s heavy hand and his crushing words and the rest of this wretched cesspool of suffering. He holds that promise tightly to his heart.

It’s enough to keep him going. It always has been. It always will be.

Sylvain fights as well as he can with his wounds. He manages to land a few solid hits on Dorothea, her swearing up a storm as she recoils in pain, but in the end, he isn’t able to do enough to kill her.

With one loud crack as the whip cuts across the air and strikes Sylvain across the face, Sylvain lets out a pained grunt as he stumbles backwards, dropping his sword and clutching at his burning face. The world around him swirls and turns dark as he falls to the ground. He’s falling and falling and falling—

“No!” he rasps. “How could I die… so soon…?”

“Maybe next time, Sylvain,” is the last thing he hears before he loses consciousness, a soft voice tinted with triumph yet a slight sadness.

-

The first thing Sylvain feels when he regains consciousness, or rather when he comes back to life, is the familiar sensation of sticky, warm blood surrounding his body. He pushes up towards the top of the murky pool of blood, the Pool of Styx, where all shades come from when entering the Underworld, and wades forward.

The blood clings to him, as if to will him to stay, as if to lull him into another deep sleep, but Sylvain doesn’t have that kind of time to spare. He’s died. Now, he must start his trek again. The cycle never stops, not until Sylvain finally gets out of Hades.

He pushes forward gently, the blood splitting around him and eventually finds his feet grazing a gradual stone ramp leading upwards. The path leading into the House of Hades. He’s home. He wishes he weren’t.

The sounds of whispering shades fills the air, accompanied by the sound of his father barking out commands towards the cowering shades as he scribbles his signature on the seemingly endless paperwork he has before him. The scent of burning and ashes in the air is familiar as Sylvain takes in his first breaths after death once again. The firelight of torches and the soft glow of souls isn’t particularly harsh, but after being dead, it’s still enough of a startling change to bring Sylvain’s eyes into an immediate squint as he climbs up the ramp towards the home he’s grown to hate.

Sylvain gives his head a small shake and lets out a little sigh, the blood droplets flying off his hair. The rest of the blood smoothly melts away from his clothes as he walks towards the god of sleep, Linhardt, who’s meant to greet the souls as they enter Hades.

Linhardt jumps a little when Sylvain approaches, but he recognizes him soon enough.

“Oh, Dorothea got you again, huh,” Linhardt muses with a small, wry grin. “Well, what can you expect from a Fury, right?” He yawns, stretching his arms out above his head. “Here’s to a slightly more successful escape attempt next time, then.”

“A slightly more successful?” Sylvain echoes with a small smile.

Linhardt shrugs. “You haven't even been able to break out to Tartarus. I think it'd be best to be realistic.”

Sylvain chuckles. “I guess it is.”

Linhardt gives a flippant wave of his hand. “Go on ahead. I’ve recorded your name.” Linhardt waves his pen in the air and gestures at the thick book he carries with him, the book that bears the names of the dead. “I’m very busy, I’ll have you know. Can’t keep up this idle chatter forever.”

That’s a lie. Sylvain doesn’t think he’s seen Linhardt actually do his job in quite some time, instead preferring to nap or read one of his books that are completely unrelated to his work, all under the claim of doing his job. Even now, as Sylvain nods at him and starts to walk away, he can see drowsiness settling in over Linhardt’s expression, his eyelids drooping shut as he tries to stifle a yawn.

But that’s just Linhardt. Besides, his laidback nature helps to even out how much of a hard-ass his father is with his own work anyway. Keeps a sort of equilibrium in the House and also calms the disoriented shades who come in after death. It’s always a nice breath of fresh air to see him after Sylvain dies some horribly painful death and comes in, dispirited.

Sylvain waves at Linhardt and steels himself with a small sigh.

As Sylvain steps into the main chamber of the House of Hades, his father, seated at the massive desk in the center, looks up at him. He makes a big show of putting down his quill and resting his forearms on the desk in front of him, leaning forward as if he’s truly intrigued by Sylvain’s presence.

“Back so soon?” sneers the god of death and Sylvain’s wretched father, Hades. He barks out a sardonic laugh. “Stupid boy. I thought you said you were going to make it this time. That’s what you’ve been saying, isn’t it? It’s just such a pity that you’re so weak.”

“I’m not weak. Just thought I should drop by and say a few last words to Cerberus before I actually go,” Sylvain quips back, canting a hand on his hip.

His father slams his fist on his desk. Sylvain can’t help the way that his shoulders jump up at the noise, his unaffected visage twisting with an unavoidable but all too familiar fear. He schools his expression back into indifference to the best of his ability.

“You leave that dog alone.” His father shoots Sylvain a nasty glare. “It is _you_ who is choosing to abandon your duties on some pointless whim. Why should you put this burden on the dog?”

 _It’s not a pointless whim_ , Sylvain thinks bitterly as his father shakes his head to himself. Sylvain clenches his fists tightly, his hands shaking. _It’s one of the most important things in my life—to escape this terrible place, to escape you._

“Regardless, your escape attempts prove again and again to be futile. No one can escape my realm. Not even me.” His father picks up his quill. “Now, are you going to stop your petulant acts of rebellion, or are you going to have to die another painful death before you come to your senses?”

“I’d come to my senses a while ago. When I decided it’d be better to die a thousand deaths than be around you.”

Sylvain ignores the withering look his father fires at him, a familiar look that still hurts some kind of naïve, childish part of his heart.

The only thought in Sylvain’s head is, _At least he didn’t actually throw anything at me for talking back this time._

Cerberus perks up at the sight of him, all three of his large heads turning to look at him with their ears sitting up on their heads. One of them pants excitedly as Sylvain draws near. Sylvain holds out his arms with a grin, and immediately, the closest head butts him, nearly toppling him over. The other heads whine as Sylvain laughs quietly and runs his hands over the hellhound’s red fur. He buries his face in the fur as he did when he was child seeking comfort after his father yelled at him.

He feels the same, soothing effect ripple through him as he clings to his dog.

“There’s enough of me to go around, boy. Don’t worry.” He snickers as one of the heads licks at him, drenching him in drool. “Okay, okay. That’s enough.” He pulls away from the dog and quells the guilt that sprouts up in his chest when he sees how sad the dog looks. One of the heads whimpers.

“Be good,” he murmurs as he walks away.

As he does after most of his deaths, he heads over to the West Chamber of the House, a quiet hallway bearing several other rooms that rests just to the left of his father's imposing desk. Sylvain supposes it needs to be quiet, as the shades in the administrative room are constantly working with the endless heap of files and names for all of eternity, but it simply brings down the atmosphere of the hallway.

Dimitri stands guard at that hallway, diligent as always, guarding the entranceway to his father’s private chambers. With his long, blonde hair and his lance in hand, he looks picturesque, as if someone had erected a statue of him there. He’s always so still, so pensive, looking a little distant, but his eyes always snap to anything that moves around him, wary and vigilant. His years of being a hero during that war all those years ago are behind him now, but Sylvain does agree that old habits will die hard.

“Sylvain, you’re back.” Dimitri’s gaze is tinted with that same, pitying look that Dorothea had given him as he fell in that last chamber of Tartarus.

Sylvain hates that look on his friends. He hates the pity. The concern.

“Turns out Dorothea just caught me at a bad time.” Sylvain shrugs. “I’ll get her next time, though.”

Dimitri nods sagely. “I have no doubts that you will. Keep your training in the back of your mind and your wits about you, and you should do well.” He pauses. “Be careful out there, Sylvain.”

“I will, I will.” Sylvain waves off Dimitri’s concern. “You stay safe around here too, yeah?”

Dimitri offers him a rare, soft smile, though the melancholy haunting his eyes doesn’t quite vanish. “I have nothing to fear here, and I fear nothing at all. Rest assured, I’ll be safe.”

Sylvain grins at him and dismisses himself from the conversation. Both of them are quite busy after all, one with duties around the House of Hades and one with a duty to escape it.

Sylvain crosses from the West Chamber to the East, making sure not to look at his father as he crosses through the room he’s in. The muffled clamor of the shades in the House’s lounge, a somewhat barren room meant for, well, lounging, becomes louder and louder as he approaches.

“Sylvain, you’ve come home.”

A soft voice calls for him. Sylvain smiles when he sees Mercedes standing there beside the entrance to his room. She’s typically there, waiting for him and keeping watch over the lounge and the rest of the East Chamber, including his room.

“Hi, Mercedes,” Sylvain greets. She reaches forward and ruffles his hair with that fond smile she always gives him.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asks. “Physically, I know that you are most likely well, since you have been resurrected, but I ask because…”

She trails off, but Sylvain knows what she means.

“I'm... A little frustrated,” Sylvain answers honestly. There’s never been any hiding for Mercedes. She’s always been able to see through his lies rather well. After a brief pause, he adds, “A little tired.”

She hums sympathetically. “Don’t feel bad now. You’re making great progress. And besides, you have other gods on your side now, don’t you? If I recall correctly, they’re offering you boons to escape. I’m sure you’ll escape soon with their help.”

“Ah, speaking of which, thanks for getting in contact with them. I’m really grateful that you took that risk in reaching out to them.” Sylvain can only imagine how furious his father will be when he realizes that Mercedes has gone behind his back to try and aid his son out of Hades.

Mercedes, though she had her obligations to Sylvain's father and the rest of Hades, had reached out to the Olympians to ask for their help, all on Sylvain's behalf when Sylvain had realized that getting out alone would be damn near impossible. Sylvain hadn't known until she told him, but she's known the Olympians since nearly the beginning of time, when they were all created. They're like family to me, she had told him happily, and once I explained your situation, they said they would be more than happy to let you join our family by helping you.

Mercedes only shuts her eyes and, with a small tilt of her head, presses her lips into a serene smile, the kind of smile that brings even the most anxious of souls to peace. “Oh, Sylvain," she murmurs, her voice like the sweetest lullaby, "there’s no need to thank me. It’s the least I can do. Now, go ahead and keep at it!”

She draws him in for a brief hug before letting him go.

“I’ll do my best. Thanks.”

With a smile and wave, Sylvain heads into the newly repaired lounge, the one which he had to fund the repairs for himself after Cerberus had wrecked it in his grief after learning that Sylvain had snuck out of their home to escape. It looks much better now that there aren’t patches of fur left all over or deep claw marks etched into the marble floors and the walls and the paintings. Still, it’s a little lacking. For a lounge, it looks oddly stiff.

Maybe a nice, soft rug or something would help it feel more cozy. Too bad Hades would never fund anything as “frivolous” or “pointless” as that. Sure, the shades can’t feel the rugs beneath their feet, and Sylvain can’t really either as his feet are constantly on fire, but still. It would be nice, he thinks.

He spots a little purple gorgon head floating around near the back of the lounge and perks up. She must not have noticed that he’d come in because she’s still muttering to herself, staring pensively up at a vase as she dusts it with a feather duster that one of the snakes making up her hair holds onto.

Sylvain tries to make his steps as loud as possible, but she still doesn’t notice.

“…but if I make him say that, it’s just so out of character!” she’s saying to herself. One of the purple snakes upon her head nods sagely, as if listening to what she’s saying. “Hmm. Oh, but it’s such a good line! I don’t want to drop it quite yet…”

It seems that she’s talking to herself about that one story that she’s been writing for a while. She probably doesn’t want Sylvain to hear about it. Sylvain doesn’t want to anyway. It would surely be a massive spoiler for when she actually puts out her writing somewhere, and Sylvain doesn’t want any information beforehand when he reads her story, even if her last snippet left him hanging in suspense.

Sylvain sighs a little but can’t help the amused smile creeping up onto his face. It looks like it’s going to be one of _these_ encounters.

He braces himself and clears his throat.

“Hey there, Bernie.”

Bernie gasps, gives a small shriek, and jumps up. The feather duster clatters to the floor as one of the snakes on her hair hisses sharply at him.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” Sylvain picks up the feather duster and holds it out for Bernadetta. One of the snakes obediently takes it from him. “Just thought I’d drop by and say hi to my favorite maid.”

“O-oh! It’s just you, P-Prince!” Bernadetta smiles nervously at him. "You s-scared me, you know!"

Sylvain smiles back at her. He’s just glad that she doesn’t treat him like she treats others. She’s more willing to talk to him instead of immediately fleeing. 

Sure, Sylvain had to chase her around the House of Hades for what felt like an eternity before she realized that he simply wanted to talk about something, rather than hurt her in any way, but she’s grown attached to him, especially since it seems that she’s one of the only ones in this place that gives her the time of day, despite her status as a maid.

Besides, after that one time that she left behind a little journal with her writing in it, Sylvain hasn’t been able to stop himself from pestering her to write more so he can read it. She always, always gets quite flustered about it, flying away immediately when he mentions it, but Sylvain likes to think that she secretly enjoys having a fan.

“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon!” Bernie’s smile quickly melts away. “Ah! N-not to say that it’s good that you failed your attempt to escape—well, I-I guess I’d be kind of sad if you left permanently—” She pales. “N-no, that’s not what I mean!”

Sylvain smiles. He can’t help himself from teasing her a little. “Oh? I didn’t know I had such an admirer here.”

“N-no! That’s not what I meant, Prince Sylvain!”

“Maybe I should stay then, just for you.” He lowers his eyelids a little.

“Your H-Highness! Y-you can’t just..!” Bernie’s face flushes, and she gives an exasperated cry. “O-oh, why me?!”

Sylvain only chuckles. “Bernie, it’s okay. I know what you were trying to say. I think I’d miss you too. Not just because of your writing—” She jolts, her face flushing even more, “—but because you’re great, y’know? You work hard, and you’re always so nice.”

Bernie averts her gaze. Somehow, even the snakes look bashful too.

“But I can’t stay.”

“I understand.” Bernie smiles. With the way that her gaze softens, Sylvain can tell she truly understands him. After all, though Bernie won’t tell him directly, Sylvain thinks he’s picked up on a few things about Bernie through all the years they'd spent together at the House of Hades. At this point, he's pretty sure he and Bernie both suffer—or, at the very least, suffered—from a similar problem with their fathers.

“Then, u-um good luck!” she chirps. “We believe in y-you!”

“Thanks, Bernie.” He pauses. “But if I come back next time, do you think you’ll have another draft that I can read?”

Her face flushes again. “A-ah! Look at the time! I-I should really, really get g-going! Um, there’s, um—the dog! I should f-feed the dog! Yeah!" She laughs nervously. “Uh, u-um, so good luck a-and goodbye!” She flies off.

Sylvain watches as she speeds through the air towards wherever it is that she’s going and only smiles to himself. He supposes he should get going too.

He leaves the lounge. As he passes Mercedes to get to his bedroom, she raises her fist and gives him a determined look. I’m rooting for you! her gesture says. You can do it!

He mimics her, smiling a little, and steps into the long, narrow hallway leading to his room.

In his room, he gets a few preparations done before he leaves. He checks the beautifully ornate yet mysterious Mirror of Night, gifted to him by Mercedes to help aid his escapes. He exchanges some of the Darkness he’d gathered from his last run and exchanges it in the mirror, letting the eerie whispers of the mirror envelop him as he strengthens what talents he has.

When he’s done, he stops to take a look around. Everything’s just as tidy as he left it the last time he left. It’s almost as if it’d never been inhabited, as if no one lived there. Which is partially true. Sylvain’s as disconnected from his room as he is the rest of Hades, but he admits that he admires how he’s been able to keep it so spotless and organized.

His finely crafted desk is neatly organized with capped ink jars and pens lying to the right of the only document that lies there, a long, long list of predictions that await him from the Fates. So far, he hasn’t made much progress on quite a number of the cryptic fortunes upon the scroll, but he knows it’s only a matter of time before he gets there.

Books upon books are stacked in alphabetical order up on the shelves above his bed and along the sides of the Mirror of Night, free of dust probably thanks to Bernie’s hard work around the House.

His bed is made, though Sylvain admits it looks a little lonely, a little odd, without even a soft indentation showing he’s been there. But it’s as Sylvain always says. He’ll rest when he’s dead. He doesn’t have time to mull about his room for very long.

He stops by the Scrying Pool, a beautifully embellished bowl that holds a magical pool of water. He had purchased it on a whim from the House Contractor, the shade in charge of renovations around the House of Hades, simply because he thought it looked nice. He received quite some derision from his father when he bought it— _how are you to escape Hades when you’re so tempted by useless, material trinkets? aren’t you supposed to be using this to aid your escape? senseless as always, it seems_ —but Sylvain had ignored him and bought it with the hard-earned gems that he collected on his last attempt to escape.

Curious, he wonders if there’s a reason behind its steep price. He’d never really checked it until now, too set on escaping, but hey, he’s already wasting some time in his room. It wouldn’t hurt to explore his purchase now.

Sylvain peers in, but soon after, he finds himself blinking in shock.

In the slightest shimmers and ripples of the pool, Sylvain sees the familiar swirl and scrawl of letters and numbers, as if written by his own hand.

The pool is keeping track of how many times he’s attempted to escape Hades since he bought it. The number reads a whopping 67 times.

That number is overwhelmingly underwhelming. It's a large number, but Sylvain feels like he's died so many more times. To be fair, time has been a blur, as always since there is nothing to quite mark the passage of time in the timeless place that is the Underworld, and there have been quite a number of attempts that Sylvain has tried before even thinking about buying this pool.

Nevertheless, Sylvain finds his heart sinking to the bottom of his stomach, leaving him feeling empty.

 _Am I really making any progress at all?_ Sylvain wonders. _I’ve died over and over and over—all these gruesome and painful deaths—and yet I’m still, still here._

A familiar frustration and fatigue start to settle into his bones, but he quickly shakes it off by dashing out of his bedroom and into the training room. He knows if he lets them haunt his brain and his body for too long, he'll only prolong his stay in Hades.

Sylvain quickly peruses the selection of weapons offered to him, a handful of glittering and grand Infernal Arms lined up along the wall. He runs his hand over Stygius again. The calluses on his hands are starting to match the handle of the blade. 

Perhaps it's time for a change then.

Sylvain's graze drifts to the weapon beside it, a two-pronged spear. It was once his father's, when Hades had fought beside his siblings to defeat his own parents, the Titans.

Oh, wouldn't that irony be oh, so lovely? To have Sylvain defeat his father with the very thing he used on his own parents?

It's enough to bring a wry smile to Sylvain's face.

"You're coming with me, Varatha," he says, gently picking up the spear. It pulsates in his hand briefly.

After swinging the spear around and getting used to it, remembering the years of training with Dimitri, Sylvain deems himself ready. If not, he'll learn during his escape attempt along the way. He stops at the door leading to Tartarus once more and shuts his eyes.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out.

“Again,” he whispers himself, though he’s thinking, _As many times as it takes, as many deaths as it takes._

He takes the plunge into the depths of Tartarus once more.

-

Sylvain doesn’t make it out of Tartarus on that attempt, though he does get to see Hilda, Goddess of Love, in all of her pink, lovey-dovey glory. When Sylvain accepts the message from her, she appears before him and gives him a sly smile.

“Oh! If it isn’t our little godling,” she greets.

“If it isn’t our lovely little goddess,” Sylvain replies with a smile of his own. “Can’t wait to come up to Olympus and meet you in person.”

“Oho? Is that so?” she muses in her usual flirty tone, though it doesn’t take a mind-reader to see that she clearly doesn’t find his flirting to be genuine. It’s fine since Sylvain knows her flirting with him is just as superficial as his own. Her form looks around. “It’s so ugly and gloomy in here. Is it like this all the time?” She scrunches her nose up.

“Yup."

“Gods, this is so…” Hilda lets out a helpless puff, throwing her hands up in the air. “It feels like the only emotion down here is the same kind of gross and edgy angst that Jeritza always has around him.”

“Jeritza isn’t too bad,” Sylvain says with a small shrug. The god of war has always been relatively kind to him. As long as Sylvain stayed on his good side, that is. He expresses as much to Hilda.

She pauses but gives a hesitant nod. “Well, I guess that’s true. Passion can drive people to do some crazy things." She perks up. "I should know! Love makes people do crazy things, you know!” She hums, satisfied with herself. “Anyway, I can’t imagine anyone or anything can fall in love down here, what with all this dreariness. It’s just about impossible to find love here!”

She starts to prattle on about how a few decorations can lighten up the mood. Sylvain nods along. He shares the same sentiment anyways. He’s been trying to liven up the atmosphere of the House of Hades with rugs and nice furniture and even some music for some time now, despite his father’s criticisms.

Yet Sylvain keeps replaying what Hilda had said in her mind. Impossible to find love in the Underworld?

 _That’s not entirely true,_ Sylvain wants to say. He averts his gaze from Hilda, who cocks her head as her curious eyes glue themselves to him. _I’ve fallen in love here._

Flashes of long, dark hair tied back and a sharp gaze, of a floating, hooded figure and a large scythe; the sound of a soothing, low voice and an echoing toll of church bell, the soft but ever-cold caress of his fingers against Sylvain’s cheek and through his hair and—

Sylvain grimaces. _Not true,_ he confirms to himself. _You can find love here. That much is true. It just... might not turn out all that great in the end._

He heaves a wistful sigh, one that he probably should have kept to himself.

Hilda’s expression suddenly brightens. “Oh, oh! No way! You’ve fallen in love? Here? With who? How?" She leans in towards him, her eyes alight with mischief and curiosity. “You can tell me! Go on! Maybe I’ll even pull some strings for you. Y’know, get things rolling in the right direction?” She holds out her hand and a puff of pink smoke shapes itself into a fat, fluffy heart right in the center of her palm. She gives him a knowing look.

He chuckles. "There's no one special at the moment, Hilda," Sylvain half-lies, putting on a smooth grin. He tries not to let his hurt show. “But maybe once I get to Mount Olympus, I’ll tell you all about it.”

Hilda seems hesitant to let this topic go, but she relents after giving him a small pout. “If that’s how it is, let me help you out then.”

Despite being gifted Hilda’s boon, a power that charms and weakens Sylvain’s foes, it just isn’t quite enough to get him through Dorothea—but he's close.

He saw how Dorothea’s shoulders heaved with each unsteady, labored breath she took. Her steps went from a bold allegro pace, cocky pirouettes and bounces around Sylvain and around the battlefield, to a wavering, syncopated pace, a series of ball changes where she more often than not stumbled over her own feet while glaring up at Sylvain.

And what’s better is that she started to take on more defensive positions rather than offensive ones.

Sylvain was _so_ close. It’s only a matter of time before he beats Dorothea.

Before he makes it out of Tartarus.

Before he leaves Hades.

He chokes out an excruciatingly painful, blood-spattered laugh as he dies from Dorothea’s fire magic charring his lungs, his vision swimming with the near-delusional euphoria of hope, the kind that only a captive can have.

-

Many of his next escape attempts are futile despite the help he gets from the other gods and even with luckier rooms that are filled with weaker or less enemies, but Sylvain clings to the hope from that last fight with Dorothea, the same way that a fish out of water clings to the last droplets of water in the air, on its gill covers, on the gills themselves. He clings to it to survive.

At the House of Hades, Sylvain pointedly avoids his father as much as he can, though he isn’t able to stop the way his father cruelly taunts and insults him when he comes out of the Pool of Styx leading into the House. He visits Linhardt, Dimitri, Mercedes, Bernie, and Cerberus before heading out again and again.

Sometimes, Dorothea will even be there at the House, for a brief break, and Sylvain will catch up with her too, share a laugh and maybe even catch a bite with her in the lounge, though there's always a bittersweet part as they know that they will meet at Tartarus once again to fight.

For most of his next attempts, Sylvain keeps his spear with him. It’s comfortable, light, and he likes being able to keep his enemies at a distance while striking with a good amount of force.

Besides, he'd picked up on how to use a spear pretty well from training with Dimitri, who was legendary for his skills with a spear back when he was alive. 

On this next attempt—Sylvain’s lost count, though maybe he ought to check the Scrying Pool once again to see how many time he’s died now—while he does meet Hilda in one of the very first chambers of Tartarus, he also meets Edelgard, Goddess of Wisdom. She stands before him, a resplendent shield in one hand and a hefty, ornate axe in the other. She holds her head held high, a noble and righteous air about her.

Despite being a god and a prince himself, Sylvain almost feels intimidated in a way. The way Edelgard holds herself—it’s commanding of some sort of respect, he feels.

Perhaps that’s why he avoids his typical flirty greeting, instead settling for a simple, “Hello, Edelgard,” and a polite smile.

Edelgard nods sternly at him. “Hail, Sylvain. I’m glad to see you in good health.” She pauses briefly. “It appears you’ve met Hilda already today.” She gestures at the pink, glowing tip of Sylvain’s spear.

“I did,” he agrees with a small grin. When he pulls it upright, setting the butt of the spear against the ground, a faint flurry of pink and sparkles and hearts trails after the tip and quickly fade away.

“I see. Well, I’ll tell you that Hilda is known to use her charms to get her way with people.” She pauses a beat before fixing her cool gaze upon Sylvain. “But I have no doubt that her intentions with you are pure and good-willed. She wishes to help you, just as much as I and the others of Olympus do.”

Sylvain shrugs. “What’s wrong with using some charm?” He grins. “If it doesn’t hurt anyone, then it shouldn’t be too bad, right?”

Edelgard’s gaze grows cold.

“Relax, Edelgard. I don’t mean it. It’s a joke,” Sylvain finishes lamely. Her gaze remains unchanged. “Sort of,” he admits sheepishly, clearing his throat.

“Watch yourself, Sylvain. Treat others heartlessly, and they will not hesitate to do the same to you.” Without elaborating—Sylvain doesn't need her to, anyway—Edelgard holds out her hand to offer him a boon. “Now, I’m sure you’ll find Hilda’s strength and mine are complementary. We will guide you to an uncontested victory.”

Sylvain whistles. “Uncontested, huh? That sounds nice.”

“I am confident no enemy will hold a candle to your strength, not even the Fury that you have been struggling to defeat.” Edelgard graces him with a small smile. “Carry on. I look forward to meeting you in person at Mount Olympus.” She chuckles. “I can only imagine what kind of mischief you will cause here.”

With a nod, Edelgard’s image fades, leaving Sylvain with a new power.

A power that sees through the enemy’s attacks and reflects them back, rather than dealing damage to Sylvain. A good power, considering that Sylvain has been busy balancing his offensive and defensive fighting style through the chambers. It will allow him to focus more on being offensive.

Sylvain cuts through chambers with ease now, easily dodging and reflecting attacks through Edelgard’s power and dealing more damage to weakened enemies through Hilda’s power. As Edelgard had promised, their strengths combined were complementary.

By the time that Sylvain arrives at Dorothea's chamber, he hardly has a scratch on him.

“Alright. Let’s get to business,” Dorothea says, cracking her whip in the air with the grace of a ribbon dancer. She smiles at him. "And wipe that smile off your face."

“That’s my line,” Sylvain parrots from some attempts back—how long has it been?—his sly smile only growing with the excitement to try out his new power. “Stick to the script, sweetheart.”

With Edelgard’s power, Sylvain finds himself reflecting much of Dorothea’s attacks back at her, all while delivering his own swift strikes. Dorothea’s smirk quickly fades away as Sylvain chips away at her resolve and her health. Her attacks, once structured and graceful, start to grow more disjointed and frantic and desperate. Her composure drops, and her neatly tied hair starts to come undone, fly-aways and errant strands framing her shocked, green eyes.

“Why won’t you just give up?” A frustrated cry tears itself through Dorothea’s throat as she fires fireballs at him. Sylvain reflects them with ease by dashing forward to activate Edelgard’s power. “You—!” The fireballs ricochet off the reflective shield that Edelgard had granted Sylvain.

Dorothea lets out a cry when one last fireball tears through the air and strikes her. She stumbles back and folds forward, like a wilting flower.

“How…” she gasps, staring up at Sylvain with an agonized expression, pain to her pride and to her body. Sylvain sees death claim her as her eyes gloss over. She gives a wispy exhale and falls. The ground beneath her, just as it had done every time that Sylvain died, softens and becomes a pool of blood, enveloping her to take her to the House of Hades.

“See you later, Dorothea,” he murmurs. He's sure to see her back at the House.

The door to the exit of Tartarus unlocks, and Sylvain sprints towards it, his heart soaring with excitement. He climbs to the stairs exiting Tartarus. As he makes his way towards Asphodel, his father’s thunderous voice just about knocks him off his feet, both from the shock of suddenly hearing him and the way that the ground rumbles with his voice.

“Unbelievable,” his father snarls. “ _You_ defeated Dorothea? How can someone so incompetent, stupid, and _weak_ defeat her?”

“Ask her when she gets back,” Sylvain replies coolly. He climbs the last of the stairs and finds the air growing thicker, growing warmer.

When the doors leading to the second region of Hades open, hot, heavy air that stinks of sulfur blasts into Sylvain. He immediately wrinkles his nose. Not only because of the smell but because of the insufferable heat.

“You’re kidding,” he moans, wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. A smattering of sweat is swiped off of his head with this simple motion, though it is quickly replaced with more. He throws his head back and groans again. “I knew Asphodel was hot, but I swear it was never this bad when I used to visit with Father and Dimitri as a child…” He heaves a long-suffering sigh, one borne from the deepest depths of his heart. He hates this insufferable heat. “I guess it’s just an incentive to get out of this hellhole faster then. Hopefully, I don’t pass out from this heat…”

He makes his way from the doors of Asphodel and crosses the landing area, ignoring the giant skull-shaped structures made of bones.

Asphodel is a sea of magma with a few islands of stone and bones, inhabited by bone hydras and gorgon heads and skeletons and witches. It isn’t like Tartarus, a dank and kind of cold series of rooms, the ground made out of relatively smoothed out stone and marble. He can’t simply fling open doors and run around now. He’s got to travel by boat now. Lucky for him, it appears that someone’s left a few boats around.

Sylvain wonders whose doing that is.

(And he quickly extinguishes the hope that it’s someone he knows looking out for him. That it’s someone he hasn’t seem in some time now, that it’s someone with a gently sloping nose and a pair of warm, cinnamon-colored eyes, that it’s someone with a rare but _healing_ and _soft_ smile—

 _Fuck._ )

In his haste to erase those longing thoughts and hop onto the boat, a thin raft made of bone that leads to the next series of islands, his foot slips and touches the bubbling sea of fire. Sylvain immediately jumps back and yelps, wincing as he looks down at his foot, a trail of black smoke almost comically drifting up into the hot and humid air from it now.

Sylvain’s feet, despite being constantly on fire and leaving a charred footprint everywhere he goes, seem not to be a match for Asphodel.

 _So don’t touch the cool-looking magma_ , Sylvain notes to himself, sullenly nursing his burning foot as he cuts the chain holding the raft to the current island. _Got it._

The boat bobs and weaves through the magma at a painfully slow pace. Or maybe Sylvain thinks they’re moving slowly because everything around him looks identical, a massive expanse of broiling magma and maybe the occasional rock or bone fragment. Or maybe it’s because he’s just impatient, tapping his non-burnt foot as he sits on the stiff and uncomfortable bones of the boat. Regardless, he feels like it takes forever before he finally sees an archipelago of jagged and dry rocks and a handful of skeletons mulling about, undoubtedly sent by his father to kill him.

As his boat slowly drifts ashore, Sylvain stands up and picks up his spear with a smirk, preparing to fight the monsters waiting for him.

-

Asphodel is hellish. Literally and figuratively. Sylvain dodges random fireballs that explode out of the sea and little spurts of magma from the ponds on the land formations. He dashes around the sharp bone fragments and pointed rocks strewn about the ground. He rolls out of the way of being crushed beneath large foes; he deflects lasers and petrifying magic and literal bombs.

With every set of islands that Sylvain clears, it feels like he comes out with more and more injuries. His vision of breaching the surface that mortals dwell on, of meeting the gods waiting for him on Olympus, slowly grows farther and farther away. He can’t help the frustration clawing at the inside of his head as his movements grow sloppier to account for his injuries, only earning him more wounds.

Yet, by some unfathomable stroke of luck, on Sylvain’s first run through Asphodel, he manages to make it to Asphodel’s gates.

It’s quiet. Still. The only sounds are the sounds of the magma bubbling and churning in the surrounding seas. And it’s empty, void of any of the undead that were attacking him just minutes earlier. All there is here is a handful of rocks, a few columns, and some sort of symbol on the ground, resembling a skull.

Sylvain isn’t stupid. He knows that there’s something waiting to kill him here, too, but he’s antsy. He needs to get out of here as soon as possible. Sure, his injuries are really dragging him down, but more importantly: the heat is unbearable and completely unsexy. Sylvain feels like he’s going to die solely because of the heat if he stays any longer.

Sylvain starts to eagerly make his way to the boat leading to Elysium when the ground rumbles violently and a sharp shriek cuts through the silence.

Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy.

Sylvain heaves a sigh, his shoulders slumping forward a little. He could try to hop onto the boat and ride away, but there’s a good chance that the doors won’t open unless the monster is defeated, so he gives in and turns around to face his foe.

From the magma rises a terrifying, towering serpent made of bone. It slowly turns its skull in Sylvain’s direction, its empty eye sockets staring directly at him. Two lights flicker within those eye sockets, and just like that, it seems to become animated, writhing as it follows Sylvain’s movements with its body.

The famed Lernaean Bone Hydra, protector of the passage to Elysium. It lunges towards him, its bony segments scraping along the stone floor. The crunching and crushing noise is ear-splitting and cringe-inducing, but it does little to distract from the fact that the Hydra is headed towards him.

Sylvain narrowly moves out of the way as the Bone Hydra’s jaws snap shut, it’s massive maw just a few inches from taking Sylvain’s arm off. In fact, Sylvain just barely feels the tips of its sharp teeth graze his arm, two of them even leaving a tiny, bloody streak along his arm.

“Hey! Watch it!” Sylvain huffs. “Bad! Bad hydra! No biting!”

It lets out another shrill cry, rearing back. 

Sylvain doesn’t speak Bone Hydra or any monster language, really, but he’s pretty damn sure that it’s saying, _I’m gonna kill you._

Sylvain sighs. “Fine, fine. Let’s get this over with.” He steels himself for a grueling battle and charges in.

-

The Bone Hydra doesn’t play fair, if the way it calls in smaller bone hydra heads to fight its battle from time to time is anything to go off of. The smaller heads pop up from the magma all around the island and strike at him, trying to slam their giant heads into him and hit him with some fireballs.

But it’s surprisingly easy to kill. Sylvain actually thinks he’d prefer to fight this over fighting Dorothea again. It moves predictably and quite slowly, perhaps a result of its size. While Sylvain does take a few hits when he’s first learning to fight this beast, by the end, as he drives his spear deep into its skull and shatters it into a cloud of sulfur and bone shards, he realizes that it was a relatively painless fight.

Hope and pride surge through Sylvain as he scrambles onto the last boat of Asphodel, the boat leading to the passageway connecting this fiery pit to the heavenly fields of Elysium.

When the boat hits land, a nice set of stairs leading into a building, Sylvain hops out and hurries up the stairs. Not long after Sylvain’s climbed to the top of the stairs and is walking towards Elysium, Hades’ frustrated grunt shakes the walls of the nice building— _the nice and cold building_ , Sylvain thinks idly as he revels in the way that he shivers instead of sweats.

“The Hydra couldn’t stop you either?” he muses bitterly, his thunderous voice echoing through the halls.

“Nothing can,” Sylvain replies with a grin as he drinks from the complimentary fountain lying about. It quenches his thirst in his bone-dry throat, and his wounds stop hurting, almost fully healing from the powers of the blessed drink.

Sylvain doesn’t know where specifically his father is looking as he watches Sylvain finish up his deeds around the little rest stop here, but he’s almost 99% sure that he sees Sylvain’s smile, based on his annoyed, _hmph_.

“We’ll see about that,” grumbles Hades, a comment that Sylvain doesn’t pay attention to in the slightest.

As Sylvain stands before the gates 0f Elysium, his heart thumps quickly in his chest. He’s made it so far. All he has to do is pass through Elysium and then the Temple of Styx, and then… And then…

He’ll be free.

Sylvain swallows thickly and tightens his grip on his spear.

 _Soon_ , he promises himself. _We’ll be out soon._

-

Elysium, the Eternal Paradise, is beautiful, plainly put. A sprawling meadow painted in soft hues of greens and blues with patches of flowers and vines gently wrapping along vases and the grandiose statues. A cool light filters in through the overcast skies above, making the soft grasses look like they are glimmering and dancing in the gentle breeze. Even the rivers look _soft_ somehow, like dipping your hands into a fluffy mist. And there are even little butterflies that flitter and flutter about.

But it’s deceptively deadly, every bit as deadly as it is beautiful. The enemies, once great heroes in their lives, here are persistent, as if still living in their glory days, and they bear the same skills as they had before they died. Every fight is like sparring against Dorothea, though they cannot last nearly as long as she does.

And those fucking butterflies—Sylvain hates them more than he hates the miniature chariot-shaped bombs that chase him around and explode when they collide into him, leaving burns all along the backs of Sylvain’s calves. He hates them more than he cares to admit.

The butterflies, souls that simply took the shape of something fun and harmless, fly at him in hordes and chase him in an attempt to steal his soul and add it to their ever-growing pile. The worst part is that Sylvain can swat at these butterflies all he wants, can pierce them and burn them all he wants, but it won’t stop them from coming. He has cut them off at the source, a giant pink mass of souls that constantly fires out these damned butterflies.

Those butterflies do a number on him, stealing his life bit-by-bit and leaving him just barely clinging to life.

 _It’s not fair,_ Sylvain wants to scream at the top of his lungs. _I made it so far! So far! And I’m about to die because of some stupid fucking butterflies! I’m about to miss my opportunity to make it to the human realm, to leave this terrible place, just because I wasn’t strong enough to fight some butterflies…_

Sylvain shuts his eyes tightly as he imagines drifting into the House of Hades, only to get ridiculed by his father. Even Dorothea would giggle a little at the way he died. Then he’ll try again and again to get this far, and he simply _won’t_ be able to. He’ll never make it out of here because this stupid mistake and—and—

 _No. Calm down,_ Sylvain commands himself. _This line of catastrophic thinking won’t get me anywhere. I just need to be more careful in this next fight. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it._

Even as he repeats this mantra over and over, it does little to quell his frustration and fear.

As he steps into the next chamber, he prays that there aren’t too many enemies—and that there aren’t any of those annoying chariot-bombs or the butterflies. He starts to cast a cursory glance the second the gates to the next chamber open, so that he can better gauge how he should fight and what he’s fighting.

But he’s immediately distracted by the familiar sound of a church-bell’s toll.

 _No,_ Sylvain thinks. His eyes widen. _Is it…?_

Following the sound of the bell, a pale purple tints the room before it becomes a flare of light that envelops all. When the flash subsides, Sylvain grips the spear in his hand tighter, until his hand hurts. It’s all he can do to distract himself from the stuttering of his heart, from the painful concoction of feelings in his chest—of _yearning_ and _want,_ of _melancholy_ and _pain_ , of _regret._

Felix, Death Incarnate, has appeared in the room, his large scythe in hand and his oversized hood pulled up over his head. Felix looks around the chamber, and his gaze stops on Sylvain. He narrows his eyes at Sylvain, cold. Unforgiving.

“Felix.” His name’s escaped Sylvain’s lips before he can stop himself. He chides himself for sounding so pitiful, so sorrowful.

The look in Felix’s eyes hardens. He turns his back to Sylvain. “I’m not here for you,” he says, though it sounds more like he snaps it at him. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Then let me help you.” Sylvain takes a few steps closer towards Felix, but Felix, as if by instinct, pulls away from him.

Felix doesn’t reply, instead holding out his large scythe. A glowing, purple circle with ancient, magic sigils that Sylvain still can’t quite decipher appears beneath the feet of the exalted shades set here to defeat Sylvain. The enemies who notice try to scramble out of the way, but those who do not are instantly killed by the powerful magic, turned to dust and ash in a puff of smoke.

Sylvain does his part, as he promised. He kills as many enemies as he can without getting himself killed. And if he’s feeling too weak to take on an enemy, he corrals them into Felix’s magic.

It’s just like the old times, Sylvain can’t help but to think. _Back when we would train together or fight just like this, back-to-back, side-by-side._

He wants so badly to smile at the fond memories of him and Felix taking out enemies like this together when they were younger, making it a contest of who can kill the most; to reflect on when they most of their time together, laughing and happy despite how Sylvain might have quarreled with his father just minutes earlier; to remember all those little times when young Sylvain’s hand brushed against Felix’s hand and how Sylvain couldn’t sleep those nights, his little face flushed and his heart beating quickly as thought about holding his friend’s hand for real.

But all these memories do are revive a pang of pain in his chest. They are incredibly bittersweet now.

Despite Sylvain’s injuries, he actually manages to take out a decent number of the enemies. It’s not enough to top Felix’s number, clearly—it had always been a little hard to defeat him when his skill covers so much ground and takes out so many enemies at once, but Sylvain supposes that Felix needs to be powerful if he’s to take away the souls of everyone who’s ever died and will die—but he still did a pretty good job for someone who’s barely alive.

With the last cry of the last shade, their soul fading into the air, the air settles to a stop. Sylvain catches his breath and wipes the sweat from his brow. He supposes he should get going now.

But his feet don’t move. Instead, his gaze does, drifting to where the grim reaper stands, holding his scythe idly at his side.

 _He’s still here?_ Sylvain muses. _Maybe he wants to talk?_

Sylvain walks up to him, cautiously as if not to scare him away. When he’s close enough, Felix, with his arms crossed and his gaze planted firmly on the flowery grasses beneath their feet, starts to speak.

“You left,” Felix says quietly, a faintest hint of sadness in his monotonous tone. Even in his eyes, there’s some sort of hurt and betrayal. “You left to try and escape Hades without so much as telling me good-bye. All this while—while I was busy with the war in the mortal realm. You just…” He furrows his eyebrows. “Was I just supposed to find out all of this from Mercedes?” Felix’s frown etches itself deeper onto his face. “I suppose you knew I’d catch up with you sooner or later, is that it? No escaping death, and all?”

Sylvain frowns. There’s so much Sylvain wants to say to him. He wants to tell him how much he’s thought of him through every waking minute, how much he’s had to convince himself that this was for the better. He wants Felix to know that when he dies, he always hopes to catch a glimpse of Felix before he's taken back home.

Felix would’ve supported his attempts to escape, Sylvain knows, but this is his own battle to fight. And he doesn’t want to turn his father against Felix too. If his father ever did anything to hurt Felix, Sylvain doesn't know what he'd do.

“I had to go, Fe,” Sylvain finds himself saying instead. Felix narrows his eyes at him, his frustration entirely too evident. “I… I thought of you and I hoped you’d understand, but… I have to do this. I can’t stay here.”

Felix scoffs. “ _Wooooow_ ,” he drawls dryly, “that’s more motivation than I’ve ever heard from you.”

Sylvain doesn’t miss the way that Felix’s fist clenches tightly in his folded arms, the way that Felix's eyes lost what little hope they had.

Sylvain’s chest starts to feel tight.

He steps a little closer, tries to reach out for Felix’s shoulder, but Felix briskly pulls out of his reach. “Wait, Felix—” he tries.

"Don't say my name like that." Felix turns his back to Sylvain, though whether it is because he doesn’t want to look at Sylvain or because he’s hiding his face, Sylvain doesn’t quite know. “Since you’re so desperate to leave me—Mercedes, Bernie, all of _us_ —behind, fine,” Felix snaps at him. “Go. Leave. Get yourself killed again and again and again, all on your own. See where that gets you.”

He pauses and casts his cold glare back at Sylvain. “And if you won’t say it, I will. Good-bye, Sylvain.”

Without even giving Sylvain a second to reply, Felix has disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

And as the silence of the room settles, now void of the Reaper and any enemies his father had sent to vanquish Sylvain, it was like Felix had never ever been there.

-

Needless to say, Felix’s appearance and abrupt departure leaves Sylvain shaken. The next couple chambers fly by in a haze, his thoughts focused on Felix, replaying that interaction on loop in his head. He thinks of all the things he should have said and done; he thinks of all the things that Felix had said in that brief time period. 

It’s surprising that he doesn’t get himself killed.

To be fair, he’s pretty close to keeling over, but he’s not dead. Yet.

But his thoughts come to a halt when he wanders into a chamber, entirely void of the enemies he’s been killing in droves. Instead, there’s simply a bridge over one of Elysium’s soft, misty rivers. Sylvain proceeds with caution, stepping over the bridge.Sylvain stops in his tracks when he sees someone, a shade wearing accents of gold and green to his attire and with dark, wavy hair pushed back, sitting on the ground, muttering to himself. Idly, he plucks at the string of a large bow he has. He looks up at Sylvain, and Sylvain tenses, preparing for a fight.

But the shade only scoffs and looks away.

He doesn’t look like he wants to fight.

It could all be a ploy, pretending to have one’s defenses down but waiting for that perfect moment to strike. It could cost Sylvain his life, an all-too-avoidable death that Sylvain might just walk right into. Yet…

Sylvain decides to take the risk and come a little closer, his curiosity beating out his caution and rationality.

The mysterious shade still doesn’t move. He doesn’t even seem to care that Sylvain can hear whatever he’s saying to himself.

“…When we were both alive, I thought you were invincible,” the shade is saying, staring down at the ground. His low voice bears a note of bitterness, one that Sylvain knows all too well. “I knew of no one, nothing stronger, other than the love we shared. Was I deceived, in thinking this of you? Of us?” He sighs. “Well…”

He finally stops speaking when Sylvain stands directly in front of him, only giving a huff of something vaguely akin to amusement or maybe acknowledgement.

“Hey, uh, didn’t mean to interrupt your…” Sylvain gestures vaguely at the shade. He seems to get the idea, if that little nod he gives is anything to go off of. Sylvain continues. “But aren’t you gonna try to, like, kill me?”

“Do you want me to?” The shade flashes Sylvain a dry smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

“Not particularly,” Sylvain replies.

“Ha. Then you’re in luck, stranger. I’m not interested in fighting. There are lots of shades looking for a fight out there.” The shade dismissively gestures at the door Sylvain came from and at the doors that lie some ways past himself. “Just go and find them.”

Sylvain raises an eyebrow. “Hm. That’s weird. Haven’t met anyone who isn’t actively trying to put me down.”

Realistically, Sylvain shouldn’t be wasting his time here. He should just keep walking, grateful to have met someone that isn’t out to spill his pretty, red blood all over the grasses of Elysium. He should keep at trying to escape Hades.

Yet, there’s something about this stranger. Sylvain’s thinking that he can make him into a good ally, someone to help him—or at least offer this room up to him for a break from fighting. Yes, a safe haven, a place to catch his breath, maybe share a few words with someone who will hear him out, even for a moment. It sounds… nice.

“What’s your name? I’m Sylvain.”

The shade raises an eyebrow. “Name? You’re asking for my name?” When Sylvain nods, the shade tries to mask his surprise with a nonchalant look and a shrug. “Well, names are fickle, little things, aren’t they? Why bother with them? No use in asking a dead man for his name.”

Sylvain blinks. “I wouldn’t say that. Names are pretty important, I think. I mean, it gives me a means to address you.” He offers a smile to the mysterious man. “So, what’s up? Who are you? Why’re you just sitting out here?”

The shade gives a tired laugh and finally looks up at Sylvain properly, giving Sylvain a better look at him. The only thing that really sticks out at him, other than the gold circlet glinting at him from the shade’s forehead, is how his green eyes are so dull, dead.

 _Oh man. He’s really going through it,_ is the first thing that comes to Sylvain’s head, but he chases that thought away. _But hey, after spending all this time getting beat up, I probably don’t look all that great either._

“You’re persistent. If you weren’t so _annoying,_ It’d say it’s kind of cute that you’re trying to talk me up.”

Sylvain chuckles and lowers his lids. “Aww, only ‘kind of’ cute? I can definitely do better.” Maybe Hilda’s influence is a bit much lately.

The shade smirks. “I’d prefer if you didn’t, thanks. Anyway, don’t you have anything better to be doing with your time, kid?”

“I guess.” Sylvain shrugs nonchalantly, despite the burning urge to get out of this room, of this realm, of this _stupid_ place he’s been damned to since birth.

“Well. Then you’d best get going.”

“Maybe I should.”

Sylvain doesn’t move, not even when the shade gives him a not-so-subtle _shoo_ motion. The shade raises an eyebrow.

"Maybe you haven’t heard of me,” Sylvain says with a small grin. “The stubborn, wayward prince of Hades?”

The shade eyes him, sees that Sylvain doesn’t seem to be joking about being stubborn, and shakes his head. “Alright, alright. How about this? I’ll give you something, and you get out of here. Deal?”

Sylvain briefly debates if he should push on for the shade’s name, but instead, he lets it go. There’s no use in forcing him to do anything. Sylvain raises an eyebrow. “What kind of ‘something’ are we talking about?”

The shade sweeps his cape aside and reveals a small collection of foods and drinks. “Was saving this for myself,” he tells Sylvain, “but hey. This seems more important.”

“Oh, well, if you’re saving it, you don’t have to give it to me.”

The shade shakes his head. “Come on. Take one. This isn’t a bribe anymore. Think of it as my way of thanking you for amusing me. I haven’t had anyone to talk for since…” He whistles. “Let’s just say it’s been one hell of a hot minute since I’ve spoken more than two words to anyone.”

“Huh. Alright then. Don’t mind if I do.” Sylvain crouches in front of the man’s wares. Most of them seem like regular food items, like the Cyclops jerky and the HydraLite drink—but there’s something off to them.

“I’ve been experimenting with them in my free time,” the mysterious shade admits. “But I’m pretty sure it won’t kill you. I actually think it’ll help you since you’re…” He gives Sylvain a quick onceover. “Looking pretty damn rough, if I’m honest.”

Well, he’s not wrong. Sylvain does look—and feel like—shit.

He guesses that he can afford to take a risk here.

He picks up the cold container of the HydraLite, a drink probably made from the Hydras back in the burning pits of Asphodel. He gives it a little swirl and sniffs at it. A strange, smoky smell wafts out of the mouth of the container, but that’s how this drink always smells, so Sylvain isn’t too put off.

Sylvain shrugs and downs the drink. It’s quite unpleasant, a murky and almost _saccharine_ liquid, but he finishes it. Odd. Has it always been this sweet?

Surprisingly, the man’s words were right. Sylvain doesn’t start to choke and die—well, he kind of chokes on the sheer flavor and texture of the drink, but otherwise, he feels fine. No, he feels _better_ than fine. His burning, aching wounds stop throbbing and slowly, _slowly_ start to heal.

“Huh. Not bad.” Sylvain smiles. So perhaps he truly had found an ally in this man. “Thanks.”

Said shade offers a half-smile in return and waves at him dismissively. “Go on, then. Leave me to my eternal paradise.” His words are heavy with sarcasm, but Sylvain figures that he isn’t willing to talk much more. His gaze is angry, hurt, tired, just as it was when Sylvain came in.

So Sylvain bids him farewell, waving at him and heading out.

-

The raucous cheers of the crowd in the coliseum before him are enough to make the ground feel like it’s quaking, enough to make Sylvain feel like his bones are dancing in his body. He has a pretty bad feeling that he knows what’s going to happen once he steps in—but it’s the only way out of Elysium, so what can he really do?

He takes a deep breath, straightens his posture, throws on a smile, and heads in.

For a second, he’s blinded by the bright flames lighting up the room; he’s deafened by the screams of the crowd. When his vision returns, he finds a long-haired man standing there with a cocksure grin, his fists resting on his hips, and the Minotaur.

“Halt, daemon!” the long-haired man calls. 

_Daemon?_ Sylvain thinks. _Is that supposed to be me?_ After a quick, cursory glance around and seeing no one around him, Sylvain comes to the logical conclusion that yes, this shade is calling him a daemon and addressing him. 

The shade thumps the butt of his own spear against the ground and points it at Sylvain. 

“None have ever passed through the gates of Elysium, as none have ever been able to defeat the great hero-king of Aegir, Ferdinand von Aegir, and the Minotaur!”

Ferdinand points his thumb at himself and beams, turning his head to the crowd, and the crowd roars in approval.

The Minotaur lets out a snort. “Your battle ends here.”

“Indeed! You will face a most bitter defeat, right here before our beloved audience!” Ferdinand turns to the audience with a charming grin. Sylvain didn’t think the screams of adoration could get any louder, but they do. Deafeningly so.

Sylvain’s always hated being the center of attention, always hated having eyes on him and hearing whispers about him behind his back. It doesn’t help that everyone in the coliseum is cheering for his death in the goriest, showy way. There’s nothing Sylvain can really do to buy the favor of the audience. They’re already too enamored with their champions to cast Sylvain another glance. 

Looks like he’s just going to have to play into being the underdog. Might as well, right?

“Alright, well, are we going to fight, or are you just going to sit there and tell me how amazing you two are for the next eternity?”

The crowd feverishly boos Sylvain, which was expected. One of the spectating shades even throws an empty can of drink at him, which misses him by a pitiful long shot, but Sylvain gets the message loud and clear. Sylvain raises an eyebrow and kicks aside the can.

Ferdinand laughs. “Oh! Such bravado! Such eagerness to die! Well, who are we to deny the monster his death?”

Leaning his axe against his robust shoulder, Minotaur lowers his head, stomping and pawing impatiently at the ground. “Let us indulge him, then, King.”

Ferdinand takes up a more defensive position, pulling up his massive shield and reeling back to launch his spear through the air at Sylvain, while the Minotaur charges at Sylvain with that hefty axe of his.

Sylvain really never stood a chance of winning this battle, even with the odd gift from the stranger. He’s still figuring out how these two fight together, after all.

Torn between dodging spears and the violent swings of an axe, running from a hellbent Minotaur while trying to dish out his own hits to two targets—it’s stressful. It only gets worse when he remembers that everyone in the stands is waiting for him to die, cheering on Ferdinand and the Minotaur whenever they land a hit.

His fall is inevitable.

Ferdinand’s mocking, triumphant laughter and the grating applause and whoops are all he hears before he collapses to the floor.

-

“Stupid champions,” Sylvain finds himself muttering as he shakes the blood off of himself, stepping into the House of Hades. “Whose idea was it even to put that coliseum there? Can’t they have an Eternal Paradise _without_ having to fight to the death constantly?”

“Sounds rough,” Linhardt muses from his post. “But not many get to meet Ferdinand and the Minotaur. That’s pretty cool, no?”

“It’s not,” Sylvain mutters back, walking past him. 

“You should get an autograph from them,” Linhardt calls after him, almost mockingly. “I’m sure Bernie can find somewhere nice to hang it for the shades in here to see. Or at least tell me more on how a Minotaur works because I wouldn’t mind studying such a creature in more depth—”

Sylvain lets out a huff of frustration.

He’d gotten so far, yet that last fight had gone so _south_ so damn fast.

Sylvain sighs. And now he’s walking straight up into the main lobby-area, where his father is waiting for him at that massive desk.

Sylvain tunes out whatever cruel nonsense Hades says to him—something related to how he’d recruited the help of the two champions to destroy Sylvain in the most embarrassing fashion, he’s sure—and instead heads over to where Dimitri is, over in the West Chamber. He calms himself down and throws on a more relaxed smile as he nears his friend.

“Hey, Dima.”

Dimitri looks up, that lost look in his eyes fading when he recognizes Sylvain before him.

Strangely, that lost look, though so familiar to Sylvain, looks a little odd. It reminds him a little of someone he had just met before. Sylvain knows that Dimitri is going through something—he always has been wearing that pensive look, a look that Sylvain recognizes even from his childhood—but he can’t help but to wonder what that’s all about.

 _You’d get along pretty well with that stranger up in Elysium,_ Sylvain muses, though he doesn’t speak about it. He’s sure that Dimitri would simply play along and humor Sylvain— _yes, maybe that would be fun, meeting someone new up in Elysium—_ but nothing more would come of that.

And has Dimitri always worn that circlet in his hair? It looks familiar to something, yet Sylvain can’t put his finger on it.

“Ah, you’re back.” Dimitri nods at him. “I heard you’ve gotten pretty far that last time. Elysium, yes? That’s quite some distance.” Dimitri shoots Sylvain a determined look and claps his hand on Sylvain’s shoulder. “You’re so close, Sylvain. Keep at it. Remember what I’ve taught you.”

“Fear is for the weak?” Sylvain raises an eyebrow. He isn’t particularly scared of anything at the moment.

(Though, there is a niggling though in his mind about how he’s completely, utterly, unabashedly _terrified_ of losing his precious heart, his Felix—)

Dimitri cracks a small smile. “Yes, I suppose that too, though I was more inclined to remind you of your training.”

Sylvain laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m always thinking about my training.”

“Somehow I have my doubts,” comes Dimitri’s easygoing tease, accompanied by a soft chuckle. “But I will believe you and continue to aid you in any way that I can.” Dimitri pauses. “Oh, and Sylvain. I did want to tell you something.”

“Hm? Sure. Hit me.” Sylvain smiles.

Dimitri’s expression becomes a little cloudy with concern; his lips pull down into a frown. He hesitates for a second, his good eye traveling around the room, looking at anywhere but Sylvain’s increasingly curious expression, before he sighs and speaks. “I… I saw Felix around here earlier.”

Sylvain blinks. “Here? In the House?” His heartbeat kicks up. His thoughts go hazy. “When? Where? Is he still here, you think?”

Dimitri simply turns to his right and points.

All the way down the hall, standing out at the balcony of the West Chamber, staring out at the hordes and hordes of endless souls coming in, is Felix. This time, he has his hood pulled down, letting Sylvain catch a glimpse of his hair, pulled into that all-too familiar bun.

“Now, Sylvain,” Dimitri is saying, his voice small and soft in the same way that one talks to a child, “I suggest that you approach with some modicum of delicacy, as I understand you two are—”

But Sylvain isn’t listening.

“Yeah, okay, thanks, Dima! See you!” He waves dismissively at Dimitri and starts towards Felix. It starts off as a dazed walk, then turns into a brisk jog, but before he knows it, he’s running to Felix.

“Felix!” he calls. Then, again, “Felix!”

Felix doesn’t turn to face him, even though Sylvain is sure he’s heard him coming.

“Felix, you’re here,” Sylvain says breathlessly, once he’s at his side. He won’t admit it to anyone, but he knows the reason he’s so breathless is not because of that short sprint.

“Leave me be, and go about your business, Sylvain.” Felix faces Sylvain, furrowing his brow. “What if your father sees us chatting like this?”

“So what? Let him see,” Sylvain replies bluntly. “We’re just two…” He trails off. He was going to say that they were simply two friends having a conversation, but… does Felix even consider them friends anymore? After what Sylvain did to Felix, essentially abandoning him?

 _I have my reasons for doing what I did,_ Sylvain reminds himself. _And I won’t be sorry for trying to keep Felix out of this. I would never be able to forgive myself if something happened to Felix during my escape attempts._

“We’re just talking,” Sylvain corrects clumsily. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t sound particularly good either.

Felix heaves a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head. “Can’t believe you’re back. I risked everything by helping you out there. And you still failed.”

Sylvain frowns. “Can you blame me?” At Felix’s withering look, Sylvain continues, “Turns out there’s a _lot_ of dead to fight down here.” Felix sighs again. “But I probably got farther than I would have, thanks to you.” Sylvain’s frown fades. He can never bear negative feelings around him for long. He holds grudges, but hardly ever against Felix.

But Felix isn’t like that.

“ _Always_ happy to oblige,” Felix deadpans. “Especially when it causes me to risk my station. To risk _everything_ I’ve ever worked for.”

“Felix, don’t be like that.”

It’s almost an instinctive reply, yet Sylvain hadn’t properly considered the ramifications of saying it until he sees Felix practically puff up, like how Bernie gets with all her little snakes when you fluster her.

“Don’t tell me how to be,” snaps Felix, his tone sharp and hot. “You lost that right since—no. No, you never _had_ that right.”

Yeah, he definitely didn’t think that one through.

“Okay, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, Fe,” Sylvain tries to amend, holding up his hands in what he hopes is a placating manner. “At all. You know that.”

“Did I know that? Did I really?” Felix scoffs. “Do I know _anything_ about you?”

Sylvain stares in shock. “What? Of course you do! You’re one of my closest friends, if not _the_ closest friend I have. I trust you with everything about me.”

“Except the fact that you’re leaving all of us behind.” Felix flashes him one last nasty glare and whips around, his cape trailing after him.

In a flash, he’s gone again. The icy feelings of regret and longing take Felix’s place, filling Sylvain’s chest.

Sylvain winces. He should have seen that coming.

-

Sylvain doesn’t allow himself to mope around for too long. If he basically sacrificed his friendship with Felix for his shot at escaping Hades and leaving Felix with less to worry about, then he has to see it through and make it worth it.

So, Sylvain pulls together the pieces of his breaking heart and sets out to escape Hades once more.

Perhaps he can make it out this time and make things feel right.

(But without Felix, Sylvain doubts _anything_ will feel right.) 

-

Needless to say, Sylvain doesn’t make it out then. He dies an excruciatingly painful and frankly somewhat embarrassing death by falling back into the sea of magma in Asphodel.

And he doesn’t make it on the next attempt either. Or the one after that, or the one after that.

Though Sylvain’s hopes remain foolishly high, he’s realistic. He knows he only just recently made it into Asphodel and Elysium. It’s going to take him some time before he figures out how the enemies are and what kinds of traps are set out there—and so on and so forth. He’ll be patient and keep at it, especially since he knows he’s still making progress.

All of his escape attempts blur together, as they always do. He can’t remember how he’s died the part couple of times, but he remembers one thing from the past attempts—Felix.

Felix shows up from time to time, though he hardly ever says much. It always seems to be right when Sylvain is low on health and morale. His friend, Death, shows up and takes his side, helping him wipe out the rest of the monsters waiting to mob Sylvain. Though they don’t ever talk after, Felix always stays long enough to give Sylvain a slight scolding, telling him to _stop slacking_ and _to pay attention, or you’ll get yourself killed._

It takes Sylvain maybe two or three encounters to realize this, but Felix keeps track of who between them kills more enemies. When Sylvain manages to kill more than Felix, Felix nods his approval at Sylvain and rewards him with a gift to make him more durable for future fights, a Centaur heart. If Felix kills more, he simply tells Sylvain to work harder before he leaves.

Even with the grudge he’s currently holding against Sylvain, he’s competitive. That brings a small smile to Sylvain’s face every time.

But Sylvain doesn’t quite understand why Felix bothers helping him if he’s so upset with him. He can’t quite wrap his head around it, but the Fates seemed that they had planned this out. 

After one encounter, where Sylvain beat Felix’s number by a good bit, Sylvain manages to catch a few words from his mysterious reaper.

Felix clicks his tongue. “You beat me. Again.” He hands over Sylvain’s prize. “You’re not as bad as I expected. When I first showed up, I thought you were done for.”

Sylvain frowns, cants a hand on his hip. “Come on, Fe. I’m not completely useless.” _That’s something Father would tell me. That I’m useless. Don’t say that to me, Fe. I can’t bear that if it’s from you._ “But thanks for coming out. I know you’re always busy with your work.”

“I am.” He pauses a bit. “You know, I don’t have to keep helping you like this, Sylvain.”

Sylvain blinks. 

Then he processes what he’s hearing. His heart sinks into the deepest, darkest pits of his body, leaving his chest feeling numb and cold and _empty._ “What? So you’re just going to stop helping me? I mean, I get it. I don’t deserve your help. And you’re busy, but…” Sylvain furrows his brows. “Did you really only stick around until I proved myself to you?” 

Felix narrows his eyes and huffs. “No, you _moron_. I’m telling you the opposite!” He sighs. “Why do you think I keep on…?” Felix shakes his head. “Listen, you blockhead. You’re clearly capable of holding your own out here. But I’m telling you that I… I don’t mind coming out to help you.”

Sylvain’s eyes widen.

“This is of my own volition.” Felix looks away. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

Sylvain shakes his head. “No, no. It’s absolutely alright. I don’t mind it at all.” 

-

Felix’s abrupt reappearances are preoccupying his mind, making it harder for Sylvain to focus on his escape. 

He can’t stop thinking about Felix—the hurt in his eyes when they speak, the frustration in his tone, the flimsy attempt to put up a cold façade to hide everything away. And it doesn’t stop there. 

Sylvain’s mind drifts to Felix at just about everything he sees. The columns holding up the high ceilings of Tartarus remind him of when they played hide-and-seek together. The burning seas of Asphodel remind him of the warm, sweet drinks that Mercedes would brew for them before they went to bed. 

Speaking of sweet drinks, sometimes, Sylvain will stumble upon a nicely-preserved bottle of nectar, a substance so coveted by all yet so hard to come around due to the strict limitations that Hades had put on his realm. Instead of drinking it himself, rewarding himself for all his hard work, he’d hold onto it, hoping that maybe he’ll get a chance to give it to Felix and try to smooth things over. 

Felix doesn’t particularly like sweet things, but no one can resist the call of the divine drink, a drink so closely related to the food of the gods. In rare occasions, Sylvain has seen Felix pop open a bottle and take a few, long sips.

So gifting Felix this drink isn’t the worst idea. 

It’s the least he can do, right? Give Felix something nice and special to remember him by, after he’s left to live up with the mortals? 

Sylvain swears to himself that there isn’t any reason behind wanting to give Felix such fancy gifts.

-

Sylvain carries on, killing and dying in an endless, painful cycle. He consistently manages to get out of Tartarus, beating Dorothea with practiced ease, much to her chagrin. After that point, it’s a toss-up. Maybe Sylvain will die the second he steps foot in Asphodel; maybe he’ll survive long enough to make it up to Elysium. It is all just by a stroke of luck, it seems.

At least Sylvain knows that it means he’s improved. If he can get good enough to pass through Tartarus, then he can get better and better until he can do the same with Asphodel and Elysium—until he can escape. The smallest sliver of hope in the bleakest of times.

When Sylvain finds himself deep in the meadows of Elysium, headed towards Ferdinand and the Minotaur in the coliseum, he finds himself somewhere familiar once more.

He’s wandered into the chamber with the shade from before, the elusive one who’d refused to give Sylvain his name.

As he was before, the shade is quietly speaking aloud to himself.

“…Why was I brought here?” he asks the air as Sylvain starts to near him. “To be left alone? Where did you go? What did you do?” Again, he abruptly stops his monologue when Sylvain stops before him.

“Hey there.”

“You again.” The stranger looks up to meet Sylvain’s gaze. “Don’t tell me.” A small pause. “Sylvain, right?”

Sylvain grins. “Sounds about right.”

“And let me guess, you’re here to bother me again?”

“What, are you preoccupied with something?” Sylvain casts a glance around, though he knows there’s nothing in the chamber other than the two of them, the River of Lethe, and a bunch of ornate pots and vases that Sylvain smashed on his way in, just for the heck of it. There wasn’t anything in there, so nothing was really lost, he supposes.

“No, but it’s nice to be alone. All alone, for all eternity.”

It doesn’t take a genius to pick up on his sarcasm.

Sylvain hums. “That’s strange. Y’know, I’ve never met someone who hates being in Elysium. Usually, everyone says that it beats rotting in Tartarus or Asphodel. Hell, I’d say that too. It _especially_ beats Asphodel.” Sylvain grimaces at the thought of traversing through there again after possibly dying to Ferdinand again. At least he’s gradually growing accustomed to the searing heat there with every death.

The shade scoffs. “Sure. It’s pretty. It’s nice. But what is there to do here? All I can do is sit here.”

“Well, there’s a lot to do here instead of sitting around. You can fight like all those other fallen heroes do.”

The shade hums. “Not interested. Fighting is what got me here in the first place. Dredges up some pretty unpleasant memories.”

“Suppose that’s fair.” Sylvain shrugs. “It’s just weird to find that there’s any kind of hero up in Elysium that _doesn’t_ want to fight. I’m sure that even Dimitri would want to be here sometimes.” Sylvain shrugs. “But staying at the House of Hades isn’t too bad, I hear.”

The shade goes still. Something sparks in his eyes, but Sylvain isn’t quite sure what he’s thinking, why he’s looking at him like that. He looks surprised, but there’s some sort of underlying emotion that Sylvain so badly wants to know. Sadness? Hurt? All Sylvain knows is that this shade wasn’t prepared to hear whatever Sylvain’s saying.

“Dimitri?”

Sylvain blinks. “Yeah? Dimitri Blaiddyd?” Sylvain pauses and comes to rest a hand on the back of his neck a little sheepishly. “Ah, maybe you don’t know him. I heard he was a pretty big war hero in the day, but maybe you died before him.”

The shade laughs. It first starts off as a small exhale through the nose, then he lets out a chuckle, the kind where it sounds like he’s trying to hold it back, but before long, he’s laughing near hysterically, all at something that Sylvain isn’t quite following. Sylvain cocks his head at the shade.

“Oh, trust me,” the shade tells him when he finally comes down. Now, Sylvain can recognize the look in his eyes—bitterness, _anger_. “I know all about him.”

“You know more about him than you let on,” Sylvain says slowly. Dimitri had admitted to killing many people, to sending quite an absurd number of people to Hades, while he was still alive during some kind of war. Is this shade one of them? It would make sense why he holds such disdain for Dimitri.

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.” The shade lets out a small huff, as if coming down from his laughter. “So you know Dimitri too, eh?”

“I do. He trained me to fight. He’s been around in the House of Hades for a while, actually.”

“In Tartarus,” the shade muses, running a hand through his hair. He casts his gaze up at Sylvain. “But not here? Among the greatest who have ever lived?”

Sylvain shrugs. “I mean, he doesn’t really tell me much about his past. All I know is that he’s been there for as long as I can remember—all the way back when I was a little kid, really.” He doesn’t wait long enough to give the odd shade a chance to speak. “You don’t seem to like him much. Some kind of bad blood between you, or something?”

“Something like that, sure.” The shade sweeps his cape aside, revealing the food and drink like he did last time. “But that’s not important. Let’s get you something to help you through here.”

This time around, Sylvain picks up the Cyclops jerky, rather than the other options. He figures it’s worth giving different options a try, especially when he’s experimenting to see what’ll get him out of Hades faster. “You’re not going to tell me about your issues with Dimitri?”

An amused chuckle. “Nope.”

“Hmm. Well, damn.” Sylvain shrugs. “Oh well. Can’t say that I was really expecting you to.”

“Can’t blame a guy for having his secrets. I’m sure you’ve got some too.”

That brings a small smile to his face. Oh, does Sylvain have his own secrets. Like the one about how he’s pretty sure he had an older brother at one point, one who mysteriously disappeared, or the one about how he has no idea what happened to his actual mother either. _Oh_ , does he have his own secrets.

“Sure do,” Sylvain replies. “But if you want me out of your hair so bad, I’ll go ahead and leave you be.”

“Thanks. Oh, but if you happen to get back to Dimitri, tell him something for me.”

“Sure. What do you want me to say?”

The shade pulls his lips up into a small, half-smile at him, the bitterness in his eyes still ever-present. “Just tell him that you happened upon a Claude during your stay in Elysium. That’s all.”

Sylvain raises an eyebrow. “Claude, huh? Is that your name?”

Claude shrugs. “Could be. Now, go. You’ve given me a lot to think about, and I’d prefer to do it alone.”

-

Sylvain is inevitably slain by the duo at the end of Elysium, felled to one hefty swing of the Minotaur’s axe. But this time, he’s not all that upset to have died. After all, he’s getting himself into quite something interesting amidst his attempts to escape.

Sylvain shares a rushed greeting with Linhardt and doesn’t even bother hearing Hades through, hurrying to the West Chamber. There, Dimitri stands, as he almost always does.

“Sylvain? What’s the matter?” Dimitri straightens his posture. “Why the rush?” He looks around. “Has something happened?”

“No, not really. But I have a message for you.”

“A message?”

Sylvain nods. “I was recently up in Elysium, and I came across this shade. I think he called himself Claude. He wanted me to let you know that I met with him.”

Dimitri’s eyes go wide. “Claude?” A pained look briefly overcomes his expression. He mutters something under his breath, something that Sylvain doesn’t quite manage to catch. He catches the first sound— _kha?_ —but he can’t hear the latter part. He wonders what Dimitri’s saying, but he’s pretty sure that Dimitri won’t want to answer.

“So who’s this Claude guy?”

“Someone I knew when I was alive. We were…” Dimitri shakes his head. “I’m afraid I can’t quite discuss this with you.” He shuts his eyes tightly. “Forgive me, Sylvain. It is an unreasonable request, but I ask that you do not speak to me about him again.”

Sylvain blinks. “Y’know, Claude was acting kind of cryptic about this too, when I was talking to him.”

Dimitri sighs. “Yes, I… I’m sure he was.”

“You won’t tell me?”

“I’m afraid I cannot.”

Sylvain sighs. “Well, if you won’t say, then I’ll just speculate.”

“Feel free to speculate all you want, but kindly keep it to yourself.”

Sylvain hums. “Alright, fine. Well, anyway, that’s really all I had to say. He just asked me to deliver the message. I guess I’ll get going now. See you around, Dima.” Sylvain claps a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder and turns to leave.

Sylvain only gets a few steps down the hallway before he hears Dimitri shuffle after him, before he hears Dimitri’s voice.

“Wait.”

Sylvain blinks and turns back around to face Dimitri.

Dimitri, with his gaze fixed on the cold, marble floor and his white-knuckled grip around his lance trembling slightly, heaves a small sigh.

“Tell me, Sylvain. How was he? Was he alright?” His voice is small, wary, soft, vastly unlike how Sylvain’s always heard his voice—commanding and confidant, enough to fill a room and move armies. Here, he sounds _vulnerable_ for once.

It’s kind of unsettling, actually. In the same way that Mercedes getting genuinely upset with you is terrifying, hearing Dimitri sound so unsure, so meek, is off-putting.

Sylvain rubs the back of his neck. “Huh? What, like physically? Or emotionally?” he asks, as if a shade could truly suffer the mortal pains of hunger or injury. Claude’s dead already. What wounds he feels on his body fade with the passage of time, regardless of how fatal it would have been to a human.

“Both. Either. Any. Just tell me. Was he alright?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Be honest. I can take it.”

Sylvain quirks his lips to the side. “Well, I haven’t gotten to talk with him for very long, especially since he won’t tell me anything, but I can tell you that he doesn’t look all that happy.”

Dimitri presses his lips into a thin line, his expression clouding over. “I see.”

Sylvain wants so badly to push Dimitri to say more, to reveal what’s really going on with “Claude” in Elysium, to insist that it isn’t healthy to keep things bottled up, but he knows how hypocritical that would be. After all, Sylvain’s already spent a good majority of his life keeping to himself. He, of all people, should know how it feels when people prod at you for something you’d rather not share with anyone.

That’s precisely why Sylvain backs away from Dimitri, waves at him, and dismisses himself from their conversation.

-

Sylvain decides to let Dimitri sort out whatever he has going on with that elusive shade, Claude, and instead focuses on his own journey out of Hades. Like an obedient soldier, he marches on and on endlessly, taking down enemies mercilessly.

But all is not grim. Sometimes, he’ll come across odd encounters, such as when the Olympians, Edelgard and Jeritza, both try to offer their boons to him at the same time.

“My power will grant him wisdom,” Edelgard argues. “With all the experience he is gaining, he may not need the _cruel_ strength of a brute. Need I remind you that we are helping to bring him to Olympus, not turn him into one of the wretches in Hades?”

“Wisdom will get him nowhere if he doesn’t have the power to back it up,” Jeritza deadpans. “Thus, he shall have my boon.”

It draws a small laugh out of Sylvain. Gods may be all-powerful beings, but it seems that human pettiness stems simply from their creators, if this petty squabble is anything to go off of. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“Fine. How about we let him pick, then?” Edelgard sets her boon before Sylvain. “If your wish is to quickly escape Hades and expend little power, be wise. I trust you to know what to do, unless your aim is to become a monster, one whose unspeakable acts will land you right back where are you now.”

“Sylvain. Vanquish your foes. You need not frivolous thoughts to distract you from your escape.” Jeritza sets his boon beside Edelgard’s. “With my boon, you will gain the strength needed to destroy your enemies with ease and in good time.”

Sylvain feels them watching him as he steps towards the boons. A classic debate—offense against defense. Sylvain would really rather that they both give him their strengths, but it seems that they are too absorbed in their argument to really pay attention to what he wants.

Sylvain sighs. He’s going to get himself into some trouble for this, but…

He’s a bit afraid of what the God of Death will do to him if he doesn’t pick his boon.

“Wise choice,” Jeritza comments, likely a jab at Edelgard. He grants Sylvain a timeless, ruthless power that aided humans in destroying each other, one that brought many to their untimely demise before Felix’s scythe.

Edelgard, though remaining quite composed, doesn’t seem to accept this very well.

The chamber of Tartarus that Sylvain’s in begins to quake as Edelgard’s boon fades. “I’m disappointed you would spurn me like this, Sylvain, choosing the warlike and _unpleasant_ Jeritza over me. Know that I retaliate not out of spite, but by necessity.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait, _retaliate_?” Sylvain blurts out, laughing a little nervously. “What do you mean by that? Edelgard? What are you—”

It’s too late. Enemies are spawning into the room, all recklessly charging at Sylvain, as they always do. Sylvain curses under his breath as he prepares for a fight.

Yet, something is different about his foes. They are harder to hit. Even when Sylvain’s certain that he has a direct path to sinking his spear into one of his enemies, the tip of his weapon bounces uselessly off them, leaving them unscathed and leaving him frustrated.

“Sylvain, with your death, comes experience, and with that experience, wisdom,” Edelgard advises, almost tauntingly, as Sylvain is swarmed by invincible enemies. 

Despite his strengths, he is overwhelmed by the hordes of enemies storming towards him, unleashing their attacks at full strength with no regard for their allies, knowing that none will be injured but Sylvain.

Thus, with Edelgard’s wrath comes the wisdom not to cross her again and, of course, Sylvain’s untimely death.

-

On the bright side, Sylvain doesn’t get to mope about one of the Olympians temporarily turning on him in an act that Sylvain is _pretty damn sure_ out of spite, for in his next escape attempt, Felix appears before Sylvain in Asphodel, his arrival punctuated with that familiar funeral toll, loud and imposing to all.

This time, as he’s more able-bodied and healthy, he’s able to keep up with Felix’s pace, killing what feels like countless hordes of skeletons and mini Hydra heads and witches. 

After Sylvain slays the last of the enemies, he doesn’t hesitate to make his way to Felix.

“You… You did well,” Felix mutters. “Took out more than I did.” Felix reaches into his cape and takes out a small, Centaur heart, as usual. “Here, then. A reward.” He tosses it at Sylvain, who catches it without second thought. “I’ll be on my way then.”

“Wait, Felix, don’t go yet.” Sylvain pockets the item and impulsively reaches out to grab Felix’s wrist gently. “Let’s talk, just for a little.”

He’s not entirely sure what inspired this sudden act of bravery, but Sylvain supposes that he’s just at his limit. He can’t have his friend be so physically close, yet so emotionally distant, especially after everything that Felix had said to him before.

He misses Felix. And he thinks that Felix misses him too. After all, didn’t Felix admit it earlier?

Felix pulls away, but he doesn’t leave. “Sylvain, I’m busy.”

“Okay. Can we talk later, then?”

“Sure.”

“Promise?” Sylvain knows he sounds childish, but he can’t help to ask, just something to hold Felix to in the case that he refuses to talk to Sylvain.

Felix hesitates. But in the end, he gives a terse nod. “Yes, promise.”

"Good.” Sylvain lets out a small sigh. “Oh, before you go, though, I have something for you.” Sylvain feels his breath hitch in anticipation as he takes out his finest bottle of nectar, the neck of the bottle even bearing a neat bow that Sylvain spent an embarrassing amount of time fixing there, and holds it out to Felix.

The reaper stares at the bottle, an unreadable expression on his face, before staring up at Sylvain. “You’re giving this to me? You realize that nectar is forbidden in Hades?”

Sylvain smiles a little. “When has a little rule-breaking hurt anybody?” Felix gives him a flat look that only makes him laugh. “Look, I know that technically, no one is allowed to have a heavenly drink down here, but I picked it up on my travels, and well… I thought of you.” 

“You... thought of me? Why?”

 _The drink is sweet,_ Sylvain’s brain immediately supplies, _like how I imagine your lips to be. It’s always so warm and a little bubbly and light, like the way that you make me feel. It glows, it’s pretty, it’s…_

_It’s something I’m not supposed to or allowed to have._

“I mean, it’s just something special,” Sylvain replies instead, frantically erasing his thoughts. “Wanted to get you a gift, since you work so hard all the time. You deserve nice things, Fe. You can keep it as something to remember me by. Or hey, I know that you don’t care about me that much anymore, so you can trade it or sell it or something.”

Sylvain wants to cringe. He hadn’t expected himself to say such cheesy things when giving this away to Felix. _Oh, how embarrassing._

“Who says I—” Felix abruptly cuts himself off with a frustrated huff and grabs the bottle. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll take it off your hands. Just—just get out of here already.”

Sylvain blinks in surprise, but just as he opens his eyes in that split-second, Felix has disappeared again.

_Wonder if that put him off. Hope not._

-

Sylvain dies to his own error, running away from and dodging a fallen warrior’s arrows in Elysium when he runs right into a trap that launches several spears through him. He should have been looking where he was going, but simply put, he wasn’t. Mostly since his mind kept wandering to a certain reaper.

When Sylvain wades out of the Pool of Styx, he finds Bernie talking to Linhardt. As he walks by, he overhears what they’re speaking about.

“Um, Linhardt,” she’s saying. “I, um, I think that it’d probably be a little better for Lord Hades if y-you would get the shades in a nice, orderly line instead of this.” One of her purple snakes lifts its head and gestures at the clutter of souls standing about the hall. “Maybe y-you can work on that? I can’t i-imagine that this would be an easy situation to be in—t-to be dead and not know if you can state your case to Lord Hades…”

Linhardt hums. “See, Bernie, that’s kind of a hard situation. Lots of these shades deserve to wait in line and get a chance to speak their piece, yes, but it’s quite a pain.”

“A pain?” Bernie echoes.

“What I mean to say is, it’s a tricky situation.”

A pause blooms between them.

“Um. Aren’t you going to explain what you mean by that?” Bernie asks.

“What is there to explain?” Linhardt shrugs. “Anyway, this sounds like it really worries you, yes?” Bernie perks up and nods a little. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you then: I’ll sleep on it. And if I dream up any reasonable solutions, I’ll get back to you.”

Bernie frowns a little. “But…”

“Sorry, Bernie. This is a really hard job, you know,” Linhardt says, pulling his sleep mask over his eyes. “Really stressful. Absolutely tiring.”

“I-I understand…” Bernie seems to suppress a sigh before flying upwards to dust the rafters along the ceiling.

 _Poor Bernie. Everyone’s been trying to get Linhardt to do his job, but Bernie still hasn’t given up on this yet, huh_. Sylvain shakes his head and heads off to speak briefly with Dimitri.

Turns out that Dimitri isn’t at his usual post. Sylvain’s father must have sent him out to do something. It’s weird seeing that little spot he stands at being so empty.

_Might as well go pay Mercedes and Cerberus a visit before I head out again._

Sylvain is about to leave the West Chamber, but he halts when he sees Felix standing over at the balcony again, looking down at something in his hand. Sylvain swears he sees the familiar, golden glint of the nectar that he had gotten Felix.

Sylvain smiles and walks over to him, giving Felix just enough time to stuff the small, round bottle in one of the secret pockets of his cape.

“Hey! You’re here.”

“I am.” Felix gives Sylvain a sidelong glance. “And you are too.”

Sylvain laughs good-naturedly. “What can I say? It happens. You leave the House and you die. That’s just how it’s been. Anyway, do you have some time to talk now? If not, that’s fine.” 

Felix nods. “I have some time. The war on the surface seems to be at a standstill right now, so there aren’t as many souls to send here.” 

Sylvain smiles a little, though his chest stirs with a wave of worry and fear. _Where do I start with this? I’ve been waiting to talk to Felix for so long, yet here I am, tongue-tied. But I can’t just back out now. Who knows when I’ll get another chance to talk with Felix?_

“Then how about a drink? At the lounge?” Sylvain beams. “Just like old times, yeah?”

Felix considers this. Stares at Sylvain. 

But in the end, he gives a small nod.

-

The lounge still looks quite barren, but it looks considerably better than before. 

With a few paintings hung up around the walls that match the colorful rugs that Sylvain commissioned for some of the money he picked up on his runs through Hades, the lounge gives off a more welcoming atmosphere. A few decorated tables and plush chairs rest around the room, some in front of the bar at which the House Chef is working at, and some in front of the fireplace that Sylvain paid a hefty sum to have installed, bringing a cozier vibe to the whole room by coating everyone and everything in a warm orange.

The shades who regularly frequent the lounge seem to be enjoying the new furniture, gathering around new tables in groups and chattering away over a few drinks themselves. A handful of them smile when Sylvain walks in, though their looks grow wary when they see Felix beside him.

 _You’re already dead,_ Sylvain wants so badly to remind them. _Felix can’t do much to hurt you. Your fear of Death is pointless now._

Nonetheless, Felix seems not to be bothered much by the fear. 

They take a seat at a table near the fireplace. They used to sit here even before the fireplace was built in. It was always their favorite spot to sit at, close enough to the entrance of the lounge to hear the occasional music of the Main Chamber drift in but tucked away in a little corner to have enough privacy. Now, with this fireplace, Sylvain hopes to make their little corner a little lighter, a little happier. 

Sylvain already knows Felix’s order like the back of his hand, knows many of the things about him that Felix himself deems trivial and useless knowledge, so he tells him to stay while he goes to order their drinks at the House Chef. The House Chef takes their orders with practiced ease while Sylvain thinks through what he wants to say.

Sylvain has so much he wants to say to Felix. He wants to tell him that he’s missed Felix while he’s been so busy at work, wants to ask that Felix stop his constant working and come visit him more often. He wants to ask for Felix’s forgiveness, wants to explain his concerns, his frustrations. 

He just wants things to go back to the way that they were, when Felix wouldn’t give Sylvain such a cold shoulder all because of a lack of communication.

(But a small piece of him wishes that things wouldn’t be exactly the same as they were before. That they weren’t just friends. That they could be something _more,_ maybe.

Sylvain shuts up that greedy, unreasonable part of his mind. He’s content just being Felix’s friend, just as long as he’ll be by him through all the hard times and as long as Sylvain can be there for Felix too. 

That’s all he wants.

And that’s all he’ll ever get.)

As Sylvain walks back to their table with their drinks in hand, his heart gets caught in his throat. 

The soft glow of the fire makes Felix look so ethereal, so soft, so _beautiful._ With the way that the light gently caresses his serene features, gets caught on his lashes and on the stray flyaways of his hair, Sylvain can’t help but to wonder if Felix is actually the embodiment of death. How can something so grim and fatal look so innocent, so dazzling and darling?

Sylvain forces himself one foot in front of the other, trying not to look like he was staring. He puts on a smile and sets down Felix’s drink, a drink that’s bitter with the slightest twinge of sweetness as an aftertaste to balance it. Felix takes it and nods his thanks.

“Like the fireplace?” Sylvain asks, taking his seat across from Felix. 

"It’s… different. That hasn’t always been there.” It’s not a question, but it’s almost phrased like one, as if Felix truly doesn’t recall if the fireplace has been there for a while or not.

“Yeah, it’s kind of new. I recently had it installed.” Sylvain grins and takes a sip of his own drink. “Thought the lounge could use some sprucing up.” Sylvain gestures at the room. “Looks nice, right?”

“Sure.” Felix sips his drink. “And I’m guessing your father didn’t have a say in what you did here.”

“Yeah, I didn’t even bother asking him. I mean, when has he ever liked anything I’ve ever done enough to allow it?” Sylvain replies flippantly, ignoring the look that Felix gives him. “I did it without his permission, but what’s he going to do about it? He’s too busy with his work to even come in here to see what I did.” 

Felix sighs. “Well, the decoration is a bit excessive, but overall, it is an improvement, I guess.” He shakes his head. 

“You know, I can decorate that balcony you like,” Sylvain offers, half as a joke but half seriously. “It’s just as barren as the rest of the House. It could definitely use a nice rug. Maybe a statue? Or maybe a little chair or something so you’re not standing after a hard day’s work, y’know?”

Felix clicks his tongue. “Don’t bother. It’s not like it’s my corner of the House.”

“But that’s where you always hang out.”

“But that doesn’t matter,” Felix mimics back flatly. “That isn’t my home or anything. I don’t need you to cater specifically to me, especially if it’s going to get you in more trouble with your father. So again. Don’t bother.”

It’s too late. Sylvain’s already thinking about how to decorate that little balcony and the surrounding space. He’s thinking of using that shade of purple Felix always wears, with a black that’s like his hair and the gold like his accessories. And skull and eye motifs, like the ones that Felix has on his scythe. A chair, a recliner, maybe a table for Felix to set his things down on—oh! and how about a rug with a matching light? A moody light that’s a pleasing lavender…

Yes, it’s all coming together. Sylvain’s going to make a nice little space for Felix.

“Gods, I can already tell you’re thinking of something foolish,” Felix mutters. “Stop that.”

Sylvain only hums in reply. “Yeah, yeah.” He waves away Felix’s pointed look. 

They carry on with a bit of light chatter for a while. It starts off a little more stilted, presumably because Felix is still a bit upset with him, but a few drinks deep and a few minutes that bleed into an hour or so, and they’re chatting like they always used to. A comfortable pace where Sylvain chatters, cracks jokes, and carries the conversation while Felix sits back contentedly and chimes in every once in a while with his own comments or anecdotes, sometimes wearing the _slightest_ smile.

 _I’ve missed this,_ Sylvain thinks with a small smile as Felix finishes quietly chuckling at something he’d said about his fights with Ferdinand. His adorable face, brushed with a touch of pink at the cheeks from drinking, and his lovely voice, and his company—oh, how Sylvain’s craved seeing Felix lax and happy and beside him once more. _More than you can ever imagine, Felix._

It kills Sylvain, a death much more painful and gruesome than any that he’s faced so far, to think that he tried to cut Felix out of his life.

But near the end of their drinking session and their impromptu hangout, their conversation slowly drifts to silence. Sylvain figures this is when they start to get serious. Sylvain prepares his thoughts and opens his mouth to speak, to apologize for refusing to keep Felix informed about what was going to happen, but Felix beats him to the punch.

“I somehow knew,” he says quietly.

Sylvain blinks.

Felix averts his gaze, casting it down into his gold chalice, where he’s running a finger over the mouth of it. “I somehow always knew you weren’t going to stay. Sylvain, you were… You were always so—so restless here. You just—just needed a reason to leave!” His quiet voice grows, a frustrated crescendo that peaks with a sigh that slips through his lips. “And… And I hoped you wouldn’t find one this quickly.” Felix shuts his eyes tightly and shakes his head. “ _Ugh._ What am I saying?” 

And though he lowers his voice, mumbles it under his breath, Sylvain catches Felix saying, “You have no idea,” with a hauntingly pained edge to his words.

“No, I know exactly what you’re saying, Fe,” Sylvain replies, not even entirely aware that he’s saying. “I’m sorry I’m putting you through all this. It’s just… It’s something that I have to do. I just didn’t want you to get dragged into all of this.” Sylvain smiles. “But it looks like I couldn’t even do that right, huh?”

Felix huffs. “Don’t say that. I was going to get dragged in regardless, Who do you think has been dragging your dead body back to the Pool of Styx this whole time?” 

Sylvain wants to laugh. Felix delivers it like it’s a joke, but both know that it’s the truth. Whenever he dies, he’s sent back to the House of Hades by either the boatman, Charon, or by Felix. Sylvain doesn’t remember any of these deaths, but he knows it’s fact.

He wants to laugh, imagining Felix taking time out of his busy day to drag Sylvain home, but he can only imagine how horrific that is. Though his memory is but a haze on most deaths, he knows that the state his body was at when he died… Well, Felix’s grim expression tells it all.

Had the roles been reversed, Sylvain doesn’t think he’d be able to sit back and not say anything to Felix. How could he do that when Felix would be so lifeless, battered, hurt? Sylvain can really see where Felix’s frustration is coming from now.

“I’m sorry.” It’s a lame apology, but it’s a genuine one nonetheless. “It really wasn’t my intention to drag you into all of this. And I thought it would be better for you if I just left while you still had all these good memories of me, you know?” A sad smile spreads across his face. “So if you ever thought back to me, you wouldn’t have to think of when we permanently said goodbye or anything like that. You’d remember happier things.”

“Are you stupid?” Sylvain blinks owlishly at Felix’s reaction. Felix rubs his temples and then fixes his gaze upon Sylvain’s face, looking frustrated, looking almost _hurt_ by Sylvain’s words. “Sylvain, why do you think I’m upset? This is exactly why. You disappeared, right into thin air, without saying a word to me, and I had to find out by dragging you back here, by having everyone explain to me what you were trying to do. I’d rather you tell me you were leaving.”

“If I told you, you’d try to stop me. Or you’d try to come with me. I don’t want you getting hurt or getting in trouble with my father.”

“I’m not incompetent. Have you paid any attention to when I come into the chambers with you?” Felix crosses his arms. “I am immortal, Sylvain. You are half-immortal. I won’t die. And I’m almost a thousand percent sure that I won’t even get hurt. But you. You’re susceptible to getting hurt.”

Sylvain grins. “Aww, is that worry in your tone, I hear?”

“Stupid.” Felix shakes his head, but he says no more, which is simply a dead giveaway that yes, Felix is worried. A spark of fondness warms Sylvain’s chest as he laughs, reveling in how Felix’s face reddens further. Is it the drinks? The fire beside them maybe? Sylvain isn’t sure, but he can’t suppress the amused smile that graces his face once again. 

“Well, there’s no other way of getting out of here, you know. I have to keep going through all the realms until I reach the top. And that probably means I’m going to get hurt and die a bunch. Which is what’s happening.”

Felix’s response is immediate. “Take me with you then.”

Sylvain blanks.

“I can keep you safe, and I won’t get hurt.” Felix levels his gaze with Sylvain’s. Suddenly, it feels like everything in the room comes to a slow, like the fire beside them casting dancing lights along Felix’s face only grows hotter. “I can get you out of here, Sylvain.”

Sylvain would give _anything_ in the world to bring Felix with him. The lonely runs across chambers would be full of life, full of chatter and joy. The fights would be so much more fun and so much easier. And once they get out onto the mortal realm, the things they would do! His chest is tight with the feelings of yearning. Oh, what he would _give_ just to bring Felix with him once. 

Yet, reality, as always, crushes his hopes and dreams, the same way that greedy royals murder their siblings to ensure their rise to the throne—heartlessly, unapologetically.

“I… can’t.”

“Why not?" The reply is immediate.

“My father. I don’t want him to get upset with you. I know that this job is important to you. This job is your entire life, as ironic as it is. Being Death is your life. I can’t just rip you away from your job.” Sylvain can’t keep his eyes on Felix any longer. The frustrated look in Felix’s eyes is returning. “I mean, what if my father finds out you’re helping me? You were worried about it happening, too.”

Felix goes quiet. “My job is not all I am.”

Sylvain’s a little shocked to hear that. Felix used to always pride himself on his skill, his expertise in his job. He always considered himself so close to his job.

 _Why the change?_ Sylvain thinks. 

“You aren’t,” Sylvain agrees. “I’m not my position here at Hades, and you aren’t yours either.” 

A silence forms between them, but rather than their typical, comfortable silence blooming like a lovely flower, it’s more like the little seeds of their conversation begin to rot and decay, leaving them barren and cold.

 _I can’t let it leave off on such a sour note,_ Sylvain thinks to himself. _I came to fix things, not make them worse._

“But I like that you’re helping me still. In those chambers, y’know? Where you just kind of pop out of nowhere?” Sylvain chuckles a little. “Well, could you… keep doing that, maybe? I don’t mind, like I told you, and it really does help. Plus, we can hang out then, since you’re always so busy, right?”

Felix looks a little surprised to hear that, but a determined look sparks in his eyes, burning bright. “Of course.”

Sylvain smiles. “Then I should let you get back to work. And I should get back to wreaking havoc in the Underworld.” Sylvain stands up and swipes their empty cups up into his arms to turn them into the House Chef, who takes them with a wide-eyed look.

Sylvain returns to the table to give Felix a final farewell for the time being.

“Wait.” Felix slips out of his seat. “Before you go. I have… Something for you.”

Sylvain blinks.

“Here.” Felix holds out a little pin in the shape of a butterfly, purple and black and gold, fit several, ominous pairs of eyes on its wings. The same kind of eye that Felix has on his scythe. 

Sylvain moves to take it from Felix’s hands, but Felix bats his hands away, coming closer. Sylvain’s breath gets caught in his chest when Felix stands just about face-to-face with him, when Felix’s fingers gently toy with the cloth of Sylvain’s chiton. As embarrassing as it is to admit, Sylvain’s more enamored with the way that Felix’s slender fingers dance around the chiton as he fastens the butterfly to him. 

“A gift,” Felix says plainly. “No.” He pauses. “Something to remember me by,” Felix amends, looking up at Sylvain.

Time slows down. Felix’s so close to him, close enough that Sylvain can see the long, dark lashes framing his warm, tired eyes and close enough that Sylvain can smell the alcohol on his breath. Though Felix is shorter than him, he’s always taken to floating around rather than walking. So they are eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose. And if Sylvain were to just tilt his head just a little, to just lean forward a tiny bit—

But just like that, the fleeting moment is over and Felix has drawn back. 

“If you can keep yourself safe with that on,” Felix explains, “it’ll help. Don’t get hit, and the butterfly will make you stronger.”

Sylvain, with his thoughts still running a mile a minute at the memory of Felix being so close, can only manage to absentmindedly run a finger over the cold metal of the pin. “Oh.” He smiles. “Thanks, Fe. I love it. It’ll help out a bunch, I’m sure.”

“Alright.” Felix steps back. “Watch yourself out there, Sylvain.”

-

The butterfly truly does help. Whenever Sylvain can clear a chamber without getting hit, he hears a distant funeral toll, as if a reminder that Felix is with him, that Felix is rooting for his escape too. After hearing the church bell, Sylvain gets incrementally stronger.

But all he can think of when he hears that bell is the light on Felix’s lashes, the slight slur to his speech, the flush to his cheeks. The smell of him. The frigid touch of his fingers. The way Sylvain’s heart pounds out of his chest.

It truly is something to remember Felix by.

-

The next time Sylvain enters Elysium, Claude’s little space is one of the first rooms he stumbles across. It seems that Elysium, like Tartarus and Elysium, revolve and mix around the order of their rooms to throw off intruders like Sylvain.

“…You chose to die in glory, not to live in peace. And for what? Such a waste, all for your foolish pride, that you should care more to be remembered by those you shall never _know_ than to be loved…” 

Sylvain has no idea what the context is behind what Claude is saying, but seeing how he’d reacted to Dimitri and seeing how Dimitri had reacted upon hearing about Claude, he can make a pretty good guess _who_ it’s about. And all he can really say to this is: ouch. It sounds like a pretty rough thing they’ve gone through.

“Hey, Claude.” 

Claude stops mumbling to himself and lifts his gaze to Sylvain. “Well, you’re back.”

“Yup, but can I ask you something?”

“You can, but I won’t guarantee an answer—nevertheless a true answer.”

Sylvain laughs. “It’s okay. I’ll do my best with whatever you give me.”

“Then hit me.”

“What’s with you and Dimitri?”

Claude hums. “What _is_ with me and him? That’s a good question. Hmm. How familiar are you with human history?”

This seems like it might be a bit of a long conversation. Sylvain moves to sit across from Claude on the grass, and Claude moves his legs out of the way. “Honestly speaking? Not much. My studies were mostly focused on the gods. I mean, occasionally, I’d learn about human history if it affected us, but for the most part? Yeah, I don’t know anything.”

Claude chuckles. “Ah. That’s fine, I guess. But has Dimitri told you anything about his past? His life when he was, y’know, _still alive_?”

“Nope. He really doesn’t want to talk about any of that. Always said that it makes him upset.”

“Oh, is that so? It makes _him_ upset, I see.” 

Sylvain isn’t really a part of this argument, but he can’t help but wince a little himself at Claude’s scathing sarcasm towards Dimitri.

“Well, if he won’t tell you, I will.”

“And is this you being honest?” Sylvain muses.

“Absolutely.” Claude sits back, leaning with one hand propping him up and gesturing with the other as he speaks. 

“So, here’s a bit of a crash course in what happened: Dimitri and I were forced to fight in this war under the rule of a king. Dimitri was asked to fight because he’s something of a legend with that lance of his, and me, because my sharpshooting isn’t half bad.”

“You’re underselling your own skills, aren’t you?”

Claude chuckles. “What, me? I would never!”

“I have my doubts.” Sylvain gestures at the glittering bow at Claude’s side, the one that’s always been there with him.

Claude shrugs. “What, this old thing? Found it just lying around here. Anyway, he went, and I followed.” There’s something soft in Claude’s eyes. “I didn’t want to be somewhere he wasn’t, you know? If he was going to go to war, even if I asked him not to go, I had no choice.” His tone is considerably softer, just for a second, but it turns cold again soon enough. “But in the war, our side was losing. Bad. Our men were dying in droves, like _fodder_ for the enemy. And Dimitri—he was so prideful. He just _wouldn’t fight._ ”

“Why not?”

Claude scoffs. “Something about his pride. The king we were fighting for was a bad guy, and Dimitri refused to succumb to him. But he single-handedly had the power to end that war.”

“So if he didn’t fight—and I’m guessing you didn’t fight without him there—then how are you both here?”

Claude laughs, bitter and short. “Let’s see. He won’t fight to end the war, even if the enemy is terrified out of their minds because of him and his strength. But I want the war to stop. So what do I do?” Claude looks to Sylvain.

“Um. Ask him to fight?”

“After that.”

“Fight?”

Claude snaps his fingers and leans towards Sylvain. “Yup. You got it. I fight. I actually went out there dressed in Dimitri’s armor. It scared the enemy troops pretty badly, especially since they didn’t know what Dimitri looked like and my armor covered my face.”

“And…?” Sylvain winces. “I’m assuming that didn’t go too well, considering you’re here.”

“It was going pretty well at first. Managed to fight pretty well. Then, I died. So, here I am, waiting for him to come. I wait and wait and wait—and hell, I’m still waiting, even as we speak. But he doesn’t come. Why? Why doesn’t he come? Why does he keep me waiting? Why am I here without him? Where is he?” Claude shuts his eyes tightly. “Then _you_ come along. To tell me that he’s here in the Underworld. In Tartarus, of all places. Not here. Now, what am I supposed to make of that?”

Sylvain can’t bring himself to say anything. He’s imagining this scenario with himself and Felix. And Sylvain can’t imagine how Claude feels—neglected, abandoned, alone. All in a land he isn’t familiar with, a land where time doesn’t clearly pass. For all Claude knows, he could have been waiting for hundreds of years, sitting in the same place for every, painful minute.

Gods, if this were Sylvain, he isn’t sure what he’d do.

No, he knows what he’d do.

“You know,” Sylvain finds himself saying, even though some part of him begs him not to, for Dimitri’s sake, “we’re right here next to the River of Lethe, the river of forgetfulness. Have you ever considered trying to take a few sips? You could just forget about him.”

Claude sighs. “I did. I won’t lie. It was right at the beginning, right after I died and he wouldn’t show up. I would drink, but… I can’t bring myself to forget him.” Claude smiles, a broken, tired smile only accentuated by the deadness in his eyes. “Isn’t that kind of sad? How the mighty fall, right?” He heaves another sigh. “I… miss him. I miss him a lot.”

Sylvain frowns. “Well, what if there was a way to bring you to him? Or him to you?”

“There’s nothing I can do. I don’t even know what Dimitri is doing down there in Tartarus and how he even died. He died after I did. What if he went on and lived a whole life? Forgot about me?” Claude runs a hand through his hair. “After everything we’ve been through…”

“I doubt it. When I told him about you, he looked pretty beat up about it.”

“Sure, he did.” Claude shakes his head. “…Sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture you about my past. Here. A consolation prize for sitting through my troubles.”

Sylvain takes one of Claude’s food and drink and takes the silent, tired look in his eyes as a sign of dismissal.

-

“Hey, Dimitri? So you won’t tell me your side of what happened, but Claude told me his.”

Dimitri just about drops the lance he holds in his hand. 

“He _what?_ ”

“Told me everything he knows from when he was alive.” Sylvain pauses. “And he says he misses you, you know.”

A pained expression overcomes Dimitri’s face. 

“So won’t you tell me what happened? We can figure out a way to reunite you two.”

“As if he wants to see me again after what I did.” Dimitri’s voice grows heavy, thick, with regret and hurt. “I’m sure he’s just playing a joke on you, Sylvain. Claude’s always been something of a clever trickster when we were alive. He was great at reading people and pulling little pranks on them. Now, let us not—”

“He definitely didn’t sound like he was lying when he said that you were foolish to value wanting to be remembered by people you’ll never meet over being loved.”

Dimitri stills. “He said that?”

Sylvain nods. “He said a lot of things. Let me share them with you.” Sylvain gestures at the lounge. “Down for a drink?”

Dimitri’s eyes take on a faraway look, but he follows Sylvain to the lounge wordlessly.

-

“I was a fool,” Dimitri says sullenly as they drink. He glares at the cups, as if they had wronged him, but he drinks nonetheless. “The gods—they promised me eternal glory beyond death if I went to war. I had a choice. I could have stayed out of the war. I could have stayed home with Claude.” Dimitri sighs. “I forced him into a war, forced him to fight my part, and forced his life to come to an end.”

“Dimitri…”

“After he died, I…” Dimitri clenches his fist. “I went into a rage. Killed countless people, all of whom were undoubtedly sent here by my hand. I almost stopped that war all by myself, all in my rage, in an act of vengeance.” Dimitri forces himself to unclench his fist. “All because they had taken Claude from me.”

“What was Claude to you?” Sylvain asks. 

“What was he to me? My other half. No, my _better_ half. He was half of my soul, and I, his.” Dimitri pauses to take a sip of his drink. “We were closer than no other. The ashes of our bodies were mingled together when I died, as I requested of my brothers-in-arms. What can I tell you? I… I loved him with all my heart.” Dimitri casts his gaze up at the ceiling of the House. “Claude,” he murmurs. “My dearest…”

Sylvain frowns. “What’s stopping you from seeing him?”

Dimitri shakes his head. “I made a contract with your father, Sylvain. Claude was actually meant to stay in Tartarus, but I couldn’t have that. So I made that contract, making sure that he took my place in Elysium. In turn, I would stand guard here in the House of Hades, in Tartarus, and do any other duty he requires of me.”

“I see.” Sylvain nods. “So, hypothetically, if this contract were to be voided…” 

Sylvain’s brain is already churning out a few ideas. Mercedes works in the administrative chamber of the House. If Sylvain can explain this situation to her, she’d most definitely help him find the contract and tear it to shreds. Sylvain isn’t allowed in there, but she is. Maybe she can sneak it out to him. Maybe she’ll want to tear it with him. They can toss it in the fire at the lounge, too.

It’s the least he could do for Dimitri after all these years—and besides, he wants to see his friend happy, rather than wearing that sullen, flat expression all the time. 

“Don’t. Sylvain, I appreciate your concerns, but… I’m not sure it’s what Claude would want.”

“What are you talking about? Of course he wants it!”

“And what would you know of that?” Dimitri frowns sternly. “My apologies, but Sylvain, you cannot simply make this kind of decision without consulting him or me.”

“Well, would you want me to? If I had the opportunity?”

Dimitri goes quiet. “It doesn’t matter what I want. It’s what _he_ wants. I’d left him there all alone with no word over all this time. If he doesn’t ever want to see me again, then so be it.”

“So what you’re saying is, if I can get his permission, I have yours?”

“Sylvain.” It’s just his name, but it comes out as an exasperated sigh. “Your father won’t approve of this.”

“Not sure if you’ve noticed, Dima, but I don’t really care. Your answer?”

Dimitri shuts his eyes, but when he opens them again, there’s a touch of hope in them, a light that Sylvain doesn’t think he’s ever seen in his eyes. 

“Yes.”

-

“So now you’re wrapped up in their problems,” Felix says as Sylvain finishes his story. 

They’ve just finished clearing a room, but Felix, after their conversation at the lounge that one time, has taken to staying a little later and catching up with him, just as Sylvain had suggested. 

“I wouldn’t say it like that. I actually want to help them, and besides, I’m pretty sure they want my help.”

Felix clicks his tongue. “And what happened to wanting to escape Hades?”

“Well, I still want to. I do. But maybe after I can do this one thing for my friend.”

Felix frowns. “Hmph. I suppose that makes some modicum of sense, if we were to look at it through your warped view on the world.”

“What, are you jealous?” 

“Absolutely not.”

Sylvain laughs. _I wish you were,_ Sylvain almost says. _I’d get you anything you wanted, even if it weren’t material._

“Anyway, I’ll catch you around, Sylvain. I have to go fetch some mortals.” Felix has walked Sylvain to the doors of the next chamber. “So, stay safe. And remember the butterfly.”

“Wait, before you go, Felix.” Sylvain smiles. “I have something for you.”

“Again?”

Sylvain holds out a bottle of nectar. He’s been giving a lot of them to Felix recently. Felix always kicks up a fuss, insisting that it’s too sweet or that he doesn’t want to get caught with illicit drinks in Hades, but it’s always so much fun watching Felix get flustered about it all.

“Yeah, of course.” 

Felix sighs and takes the nectar. “You’re wasting your time, you know.”

“I mean, as long as they’re going to you, I think I don’t mind.”

Felix’s face reddens a little. “And if they were going to someone else?”

“What, are you giving them away or something?” Sylvain feigns a gasp, putting a hand to his chest. “That’s so rude!”

“I’m not.” Felix tucks the bottle away in his cape. “Do you go around giving other people gifts like this too?”

Sylvain considers this. He’s thought about it. He’s really wanted to give Mercedes, Bernie, and Linhardt a few, just to show that he’s been grateful over the years that they’ve been with him. Hell, he’s even thought about dropping a few at the feet of the Olympians too, or even Dorothea, who’s been routinely kicking his ass for a while now. 

But Sylvain just couldn’t bring himself to, especially when Felix was right there, taking the gifts with a flushed expression and a look of _well, it can’t be helped, I suppose_ —when Felix was trying to play off how he really felt about getting a gift from Sylvain, when he was being so _cute_ about it.

“Nah. Why? Should I start?”

Felix turns his face away. “They’re yours. Do with them what you will.”

Sylvain shrugs. “Well, if you say so, fine. I want to continue giving them to you, if you’ll take them.”

Felix sighs. “You…”

“Me?” Sylvain smiles at him. “What about me, Fe?”

“Nothing. Never mind. Goodbye, Sylvain.”

-

He’s been getting pretty close. He’s finally beat out the Minotaur and Ferdinand a few times by now, heading into the Temple of Styx, where his own dog is sent to stop him. Luckily, Cerberus is easily swayed by treats. The Temple of Styx is simply just a set of rooms, where Sylvain has to find Cerberus’ snacks while battling a handful of disgusting rats and satyrs. Not as bad as burning as Asphodel, but the rats and satyrs are surprisingly powerful. So Sylvain has yet to escape that area of Hades, yet, but he knows after it, he’ll be there. The mortal realm. He can’t wait. 

But lately, it feels like Sylvain’s been at the House more often, and he’s pretty sure he knows why.

Felix shows up there, after all.

So Sylvain stops by to see if Felix is there. If he is, Sylvain holds a nice conversation with him; if he’s not, Sylvain gives his customary farewells to his close friends again, tells his father to kindly _fuck off_ with his heartless comments and cruelty, and heads out into battle—after he funds more decorative furniture on Felix’s balcony, of course.

Felix gives him an exasperated sigh every time he comes to the balcony and finds that the little spot has been decorated with more and more items, but he seems to be putting it to use. 

Sylvain drops by and sometimes, Felix is lying on the plush recliner, waiting for him. Other times, he’ll be sitting at the table, scribbling away at something that he immediately hides from Sylvain—but Sylvain does catch a glimpse of a large cat-like figure scrawled on the sheet at one point. It only draws more curiosity from Sylvain.

He figures out what it is soon enough because one day, while they are chatting at the House, Felix sitting at the chair and Sylvain sprawled out on the recliner. Normally, Sylvain would insist that he doesn’t have time to waste around the House, but… For Felix? Sylvain thinks that he’s willing to do anything, even if it means prolonging his stay here just a touch longer.

Their conversation, like it always is whenever they talk, is filled with light-hearted joy. They share a bit of the nectar that Sylvain offered Felix— _please tell me you didn’t actually think I could finish it all by myself, Sylvain, because you’ve given me about five or six bottles by now_ —and they chat about mostly mundane things. They don’t have much time for another serious conversation anyway, seeing that Sylvain is itching to escape again. After all, in his last escape attempt, he almost found just what Cerberus wanted, that disgusting Satyr Sack, filled with all sorts of who-knows-what.

As their conversation comes to an end, Sylvain finds Felix handing him something.

“You… You’ve been getting pretty close to escaping. And well, I don’t know if I’ll see you again if you make it out.” Felix frowns. “No, I’d see you again. But you’d just be dead.”

Sylvain frowns. Right. If he makes it out of Hades, he won’t be able to see Felix so regularly. And suddenly, Sylvain, just like when he first made up his mind to leave, is faced with a dilemma. Leave Hades and his friends, his crush, behind? Or stay?

“Just open it.”

Sylvain pulls at the ribbon and unwraps the gift, setting aside the wrapping paper in a neat heap on the table. He suppresses a little gasp.

“This…”

“Yes.” Felix’s cheeks start to turn pink.

Sylvain laughs and pulls out a tattered doll of a cat. “Felix! You found Mort!”

“I did.” 

“Oh, man, you used to carry this thing everywhere you went—everywhere! Mercedes said you even took it up to the mortal realm with you sometimes. It was so cute. You would never see small Felix without his favorite doll.” Then it hits Sylvain. “What? What?! You can’t just give me Mort! You love this thing!” He holds it out, as if to thrust it into Felix’s arms, but Felix shakes his head.

“It’s for you now. I trust you to take care of him. I’ve outgrown him.”

“Felix…” Sylvain holds Mort close to his chest, his heart thumping quickly in his chest. “I can’t believe you’d give me something so important.” He smiles. 

_You’re reading too much into it,_ Sylvain tells himself. _You’re just a friend. And he’s giving you something because you’re leaving. That’s all._

But Sylvain can’t bring himself to really care. Felix handed him something that he’s cared for so much as a child, something so well loved and filled with sentimental value. Like scars, every different colored patch and every errant stitch had their own stories. Even the fact that Mort had mismatching button eyes because Felix lost one—and cried for almost a whole hour over it—has sentimental value.

Giving Sylvain this doll is the same as sharing so much of Felix with him.

“I… I don’t know what to say, Fe. Thank you. I… I’ll take good care of him.” He smiles down at the doll and looks up at Felix, who can’t seem to their eyes locked for very long.

_Well, if Felix wants to go all out, I might as well, too, right? Fuck it!_

“Hey, Felix. I have something for you too.”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess, a bottle of nectar.”

“No.” Sylvain sets Mort aside and reaches into a small satchel he carries around his waist. He hands Felix a pristine bottle of ambrosia. If nectar wasn’t allowed in the Underworld, then ambrosia was something that could probably get you executed—though you would probably end up coming back into Tartarus shortly after. The food of the Olympians, here in a bottle, just for Felix. 

Sylvain puffs out his chest in pride. 

Felix sighs. “Ugh, come on, Sylvain. Are you messing with me? How did you even manage to get this stuff down here? And why are you giving it to me? 

Sylvain takes in a small breath and lets it out. He locks eyes with Felix, who is still frowning in disapproval. He’s going to say it. He’s going to say it.

“I’m giving it to you because I like you, Felix.”

He said it. Sylvain’s heartbeat accelerates, and he can hear it thumping in his ears. His face burns, his hands are sweaty, and he doesn’t quite know what to do, but he said it. He said the feelings he’s had for Felix since he was young.

He feels so embarrassed yet so free and light and happy. 

He also feels like he’s going to die and end up wading back to Felix from the pool of blood at the entrance of the House again. _Gods, that would be embarrassing._

Felix’s surprised look doesn’t leave his face, even as he tries to voice his thoughts. “You… _like_ me, Sylvain?” Felix asks. “I never thought… I-I don’t know why, but that sounds so strange coming from you.”

Sylvain averts his gaze. “If you don’t feel the same about me at this point, I would rather know. Y’know, so we can stop with the whole giving gifts thing.”

“I never said anything like that!”

Felix’s sharp tone surprises Sylvain into bringing his gaze back up to him.

“Felix?”

“God, you’re dense as a bag of bricks.” Felix sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been leaving you hints this entire time, and you…”

“Hints?” Sylvain asks weakly.

“Why do you think I was so upset that you were leaving in the first place? Because I like you back, you idiot.”

Sylvain blinks owlishly. “Huh?”

Felix looks like he wants to say something in that frustrated tone of his, but instead, what comes out is a small laugh. It looks like it surprises Felix too, but his cute chuckle is so contagious. Sylvain finds himself laughing too.

“Say it again, Felix. What are you trying to say?” Sylvain reaches out and gingerly takes Felix’s hand in his. Felix squeezes Sylvain’s hand back.

Felix rolls his eyes as his cheeks flare and as his laughter dies down. “I said I like you back, you idiot.” He pauses. “So what are you waiting for?” he adds in a soft mumble. “I’m here already. So…”

Sylvain smiles and pulls Felix close, pressing their lips together. Felix brings his hand up and caresses Sylvain’s cheek with one hand, the other resting in his hair. 

Sparks fly in Sylvain’s chest as their lips meld together, and it feels like he just can’t get enough of Felix. His lips are sweet from the nectar they had just been drinking, and they’re soft, warm. They’re just how Sylvain imagined them to be. 

Sylvain’s dreamed of this moment. So many times throughout his childhood; so many times during his adulthood. Even as he ran through Hades wreaking havoc, he’d dreamed of kissing Felix over and over, of running his hands through Felix’s hair, of holding him close. 

And now it’s happening.

Sylvain can’t be happier than in this moment. He doesn’t think he’s ever been happier. 

And judging by the look on Felix’s face, the dazed, flushed, and smiley look on his face, Sylvain would say he feels the same.

-

Upon receiving Claude’s permission—though Claude insisted over and over again that Sylvain was just lying to him about Dimitri’s contract—Sylvain enlisted Mercedes’ help to find Dimitri’s contract. When they found it, Sylvain loudly announced the nullification of the pact and let Mercedes tear it to shreds, giggling.

“Oh, this is so fun!” Mercedes had cheered before throwing the shreds of the pact into the fire of the lounge.

Though Hades loudly complained about the nullification of the pact— _why do you even have administrative powers still? I swear I took that away from you—_ it was under Mercedes’ supervision, so he relented. He has power over her, but he must have decided that it was not worth the trouble. 

So he agreed to free Dimitri of his pact.

-

The next time Sylvain makes his way to Elysium, Claude and Dimitri are both there, standing side-by-side in Claude’s chamber, hand-in-hand. They seemed to have made up while Sylvain died repeatedly, complaining about it to Felix, and struggling on his way up here.

“You’re here!” Dimitri calls out to him, his expression looking bright and genuinely happy for what seems like the first time in forever. “Claude, look!”

“Yes, yes, I can see him.” Claude chuckles and waves at Sylvain.

“Hey, you two. Glad to see you guys are together now!” Sylvain beams at them. “Hopefully, nothing too bad happened while I was gone? No fights?”

“No fights,” Claude confirms.

“Just a lot of talking.” Dimitri rubs his thumb over Claude’s knuckles and Claude just turns to look at him, the tiniest smile on his lips.

 _They both look so different now_ , Sylvain thinks to himself. _Smiling like that—they look so much younger._

“Hey.” Claude steps forward and puts a hand on Sylvain’s shoulder. “I didn’t think it was possible to ever see my Dima here again, but you did it. So I want to thank you.”

“I do too. I’m not sure how I can ever express my gratitude but...”

Sylvain waves them off. “I’m just happy to see you two happy. Besides, I owe it to Dimitri, after all he’s helped me out with. So, don’t let me take up your time together. I’ll be on my way now.”

“Wait, I think you’re forgetting something here, bud.” 

Sylvain smiles when he turns back to face the couple and finds that Claude is offering him his wares again, as he always does. Dimitri watches in amusement, in confusion, but Claude promises him, “I’ll explain later,” patting his arm with a soft laugh.

Sylvain takes one, bids them farewell without looking back. 

But out of curiosity, when he casts his glance behind him from the gates to the next room, he sees the fondness in their eyes as Dimitri and Claude share a smile. Their gazes are locked, and their hands are intertwined. Like they’re in their own little world.

Sylvain smiles. He bets he and Felix look like that too.

But Sylvain supposes that Dimitri wasn’t exaggerating earlier. They really were two halves of each other, like a soul reuniting after so long. Together, they look bright, powerful, and complete. 

Like nothing can defeat them or come between them again.

-

When Sylvain makes it to the surface, covered in a white, soft substance that falls from above, where the sky is light and there are foreign noises everywhere—from the sky, from the vertical...plants?, from the water—it turns out that he has quite a surprise waiting for him: his own father. He hardly gets to revel in the cold air, in the way that the white ground beneath his feet becomes singed with black footprints, in the fluffy, white things floating up in the sky, as Hades, dressed in armor, turns to face him.

“You’ve repeatedly disobeyed me and come this far. It is my duty as the Lord of the Underworld to stop you here.” His father smirks. “And let me assure you, it will be therapeutic to shed your mortal blood here, after all the shit you’ve done.”

Sylvain glares at him. “I didn’t come all this way to fall to a pathetic excuse for a father. I will make it to the mortal realm, and you can’t stop me, no matter how hard you try.”

The battle begins quite abruptly as his father charges at him.

The battle seems to be endless. Reinforcements keep appearing, and his father uses his power to become invisible, making it hard for Sylvain to properly pinpoint where he is. But Sylvain continues, using the spear that Hades used upon his parents, the Titans, just as he had thought about all those times ago.

And when Hades falls to his knees, Sylvain is about to say something smug, about to claim that even Ferdinand and the Minotaur had been more of a challenge for him, two minor shades instead of a full-fledged god. But right as Sylvain huffs out a small laugh, Hades abruptly stands back up and strikes at him, now with searing hot lasers that burn down all in sight.

Perhaps he simply needed to catch a break. Perhaps he was purposely letting his guard down. Whatever he did, it was enough to seriously catch Sylvain off-guard and put him in a disadvantage.

Sylvain is so close to defeating his father, he knows. His father is bleeding, panting like a dog, snarling out all these atrocious things—but Sylvain’s at his limit. His fighting has become sloppy as he tries to accommodate his wounds.

“I thought you would put up more of a fight than this,” Hades jeers at him as he raises his own spear to kill Sylvain and send him home once more. “But you’re just as weak as I knew you were.”

Sylvain shuts his eyes tightly and waits for the pain to spread throughout his body before he loses consciousness and dies again. He mourns the fact that he can see the portal leading to the mortal realm, mourns that he’ll have to work so hard just to come back here once again, that he’ll die to his father and never hear the end of it.

 _So close, yet so far. Will I_ ever _get there?_

But the blow doesn’t come. Instead, the sound of metal clashing against metal resounds through the air.

“Why, you little...!” Hades huffs.

Sylvain dares to peek open an eye.

And that’s where he sees Felix there, blocking Hades’ spear with his massive scythe. 

“Don’t just die here,” Felix says, his voice audibly strained. His scythe trembles under the strength of the god. Felix grimaces and tries to force back Hades’ weapon, but with little success. “You’re so close, Sylv.”

Sylvain furrows his brows. How had Felix found him? And was Felix really risking everything with Hades just for him? “Felix?”

Felix must see the confusion in Sylvain’s eyes because he attempts to explain, though he doesn’t manage to get very far. “It was Mort—I can track— _urgh,_ hurry, Sylv, I can’t—not much longer…” Felix’s arms are shaking now.

Mort? Sylvain did bring him with him, hanging from the little satchel around his waist. Felix had been able to track him? He had come just in time, then. 

Sylvain loves Mort a little more now.

And it doesn’t feel possible, but he loves Felix even more too.

Felix’s feet are dragged back from the sheer force of the god’s strength, leaving little marks. “Sylvain!” he huffs. "Now!"

Sylvain forces himself to his feet and drives his spear forward with all his strength. Even though Hades does his best to shove Felix away and block Sylvain’s attack, it’s too late. Sylvain dealt the final blow, the tip of his spear burying itself _deep_ into his father’s chest.

“Traitor!” Hades seethes at Felix. “You traitor!”

Cursing up a storm as he collapses, Hades, his father and the final thing keeping him from leaving the Underworld, disappears in a pool of blood, the River of Styx pulling him home.

It doesn’t properly process in Sylvain’s brain until he sees the last traces of his father fade into the ground, leaving behind charred marks on the cold, white ground.

He defeated his father. He can enter the mortal realm. He’s free.

Ecstatic, he grabs Felix’s hand and pulls him in for a tight hug, pressing their lips together. Felix sounds surprised at first, but he is quickly to kiss back.

“I did it!” Sylvain cries out, a massive weight pulled off his shoulders, from his chest, from his mind, and Felix smiles at him. He whoops out in excitement. “Felix, I’m free!”

Felix leans in against Sylvain and chuckles weakly. “You did it.”

“It wasn’t just me, Fe. You saved me. If you weren’t there, I wouldn’t have been able to do it.” Sylvain kisses Felix again. “My hero!”

Felix hums. “Thank Mort. Without him, I wouldn’t have been able to find where you were. It was just luck that I came in time, but I didn’t know you were here.”

Sylvain laughs and picks up the little, stuffed cat hanging from his waist. “Is that so? Well, thank you, Mort. From the very bottom of my heart.” He gives it a kiss too, Felix simply rolling his eyes.

“Alright, alright. Well, you should go ahead and pass through that portal now, then. Get your new life started, up there with the mortals.”

Slight melancholy laces his tone, plagues his expression, and Sylvain knows exactly why. If Sylvain’s to live on the mortal plane, how likely is it that Felix would just drop by unless Sylvain is dead? When he does it at the House of Hades, it’s because that’s where he works. With Sylvain living up at the mortal realm, would Felix be able to come and spend time despite his busy schedule? 

It’s the concern that’s been eating at the both of them for the entirety of Sylvain’s attempts to escape. The fear that they only just truly figured out their true feelings for one another but must split up.

 _No, I won’t let that happen._

Sylvain takes Felix’s hands in his. “Hey. I won’t be at the House of Hades anymore, but… Would you be okay with coming by my place once in a while on the mortal realm? I know it’d be more inconvenient, and I know you said before it’s too bright up there for your liking, but I don’t want to lose contact with you. No, I don’t want to lose _you_.”

Felix’s eyes widen.

“You can even stay a few times once I get it all set up and you’re not too busy. I’ll make a room for you and everything. It’ll be dark and cold, just how you like it. Maybe you can even bring some of your nectar and some of the furniture from the balcony you used to stay at all the time in the House. We’ll make it cozy. It won’t be just my home, but yours too.”

There’s a brief pause. 

“So, please don’t think you and I are forced to separate forever until I die.” Sylvain squeezes Felix’s hands. “Because I love you. And I don’t want to live if I’m not with you.”

“You love me, huh?” Felix’s face flushes. “Well… I love you too.” He smiles. “And of course I’ll visit you, you fool.” Felix waits a beat. “Actually, I’ll visit as long as you make one little change to your plans.”

“Of course. I’d do anything for you. What is it?”

“Don’t even think about going through the trouble of creating a separate room for me.” Felix leans in for a small kiss on Sylvain’s cheek. “We can share.”

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays, folks!! stay safe and warm!! :D
> 
> again, here's big, _big_ thank you to the Sylvix Squad discord server for having such a neat event!! c: i'm so happy to have been a part of this!
> 
> \-----
> 
> litchrally no one asked but here's just a few notes about this fic!
> 
>  ~~-i've been not stop dying over patrochilles since i read the song of achilles a few years ago, and seeing patrochilles come back with hades has absoLUTELY DELETED ME AAA GOODBYE-~~  
>  \- dimitri makes for a pretty good achilles!! (more specifically, his rage/desire for vengeance and his legendary strength!)  
> \- i think claude fits patroclus pretty well, at least for the hades version of him, like they're both wary of strangers and sometimes a bit dry in their delivery when they make jabs at ppl? (really liked as a parallel how patroclus monologues in hades, and claude has his own affection for poetry! it's not the same, but it's kind of in the same ballpark, i imagine! also i just wanted to make him angry so he's pretty bitter here jskldfjsldf)  
> \- wanted to cast dimitri as ares at first bc god of war!! and the in-game rivalry with edelgard/athena !! the banter would have been,, so gOOD  
> \- was definitely thinking of claude for dionysus ~~i'm still thinking about Him,,~~ but i wanted that sweet, sweet dimiclaude aNGST so patrochilles!dimiclaude it was!!  
> \- considered making constance or lorenz into theseus but backed out because mr ferdie von aegir felt like a pretty solid pick!  
> \- wanted to make eurydice and orpheus but with dorothea and ingrid respectively, but was having trouble making it work ^^;; ~~the angst potential for that one hURTED also~~  
>  \- k,,,kronya as alecto.....  
> \- had m!byleth + f!byleth + sothis as chaos!! was gonna make them be all cool and speak with that weird effect that chaos has in-game, but didn't have time to put in another subplot,,  
> \- thot about makin caspar the minotaur,,,,,,,,,,, but couldn't make the vibes right :(


End file.
